^  !r' 


K  ^^-v-^^^ii^  ''^7J«»^*^^'XV 


'•^^ 


'O'i^ 


Univenity  of  California  •  Berkeley 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Arciiive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/earthworkoutoftuOOhewlrich 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY 


UN   JLLUSf! 
TAMES  KERR    ' 


^^F&r  as  it    is  A-. 


EARTHWORK  OUT 
OF  TUSCANY  ><  bemg 

IMPRESSIONS  AND  TRANSLA- 
TIONS OF  MAURICE  HE IV LETT 
IVITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 
JAMES  KERR  LAWSON    ><    >« 


'^''For  as  it  is  hurtful  to  drink  -wine  or 
■water  alone :  and  as  ivine  mingled  with 
•water  is  pleasant  and  delighteth  the  taste  : 
enen  so  speech,  finely  framed,  delighteth 
the  ears  of  thejn  that  read  the  story T — 
2  Maccabees  xv.  39 


New  edition 
With  additional 
Illustrations  in 
Photogravure 


NEiV  YORK:  G.   P.   PUTNAM'S  SONS 
LONDON:  J.  M.  DENT  &-  CO. 

MCM 


Copyright,  1899 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 


TTbe  imfcfieibocfter  ptees,  t\ew  ^orft 


To 

MY  FATHER 

THIS  LITTLE  BOOK, 

NOT  AS  BEING  WORTH Y,  BUT  AS  ALL  I  HA  VE, 
IS    DEDICATED 


I  cannot  add  one  tendril  to  your  bays. 

Worn  quietly  where  who  love  you  sing  your  praise. 

But  I  may  stand 

A  mong  the  household  throng  with  lifted  hand. 

Upholding  for  sweet  honour  of  the  land 

Your  crown  of  days. 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND 
EDIT/ON 

My  Critics — to  whom,  kind  or  unkind,  I 
confess  obligations — and  the  Public  between 
them  have  produced,  it  appears,  some  sort 
of  demand  for  this  Second  Edition.  While 
I  do  not  think  it  either  polite  or  politic  to 
enquire  too  deeply  into  reasons,  I  am  not 
the  man  to  disoblige  them.  It  is  sufficient 
for  me  that  in  a  world  indifferent  well- 
peopled  Jive  hundred  souls  have  bought  or 
acquired  my  book,  and  that  other  hundreds 
have  signified  their  desire  to  do  likewise. 
Nevertheless — the  vanity  of  authors  being 
notoriously  hard-rooted — /  must  own  to  my 
mortification  in  the  discovery  that  not  more 
than  two  in  every  hundred  who  have  read 
me  have  known  what  I  was  at.  I  have  been 
told  it  is  a  good  average,  but,  with  defer- 
ence, I  don't  think  so.  No  man  has  any 
right  to  take  beautiful  and  simple  things 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION 

out  of  their  places,  wrap  them  tip  in  a  tissue 
of  his  own  conceits,  and  hand  them  about 
the  universe  for  gods  and  men  to  wonder 
upon.  If  he  must  convey  simple  things  let 
him  convey  them  simply.  If  I,  for  instance, 
must  steal  a  loaf  of  bread,  would  it  not  be 
better  to  walk  out  of  the  shop  with  it  under 
my  coat  than  to  call  for  it  in  a  hansom 
and  hoodwink  the  baker  with  a  forged 
cheque  on  Coutts  's  bank  ?  Surely.  If,  then, 
I  go  to  Italy,  and  convey  the  hawthorn- 
scent  of  Delia  Robbia,  the  straining  of 
Botticelli  to  express  the  ineffable,  the  mellow 
autumn  tones  of  the  life  of  Florence  ;  if  I 
do  this,  and  make  a  parade  of  my  magnani- 
mity in  permitting  the  household  to  divide 
the  spoil,  how  on  earth  should  I  mar  all  my 
bravery  by  giving  people  what  they  don't 
want,  or  turn  double  knave  by  fobbing  them 
off  with  an  empty  box  ? 

I  had  hoped  to  have  done  better  than  this. 
I  tried  to  express  in  the  title  of  my  book 
what  I  thought  I  had  done ;  more,  I  was 
bold  enough  to  assume  that,  having  weath- 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION 

ered  the  title,  my  readers  would  find  a 
smooth  channel  with  leading-lights  enough 
to  bring  them  sound  to  port.  Mea  culpa  ! 
/  believe  I  was  wrong.  The  book  has  been 
read  as  a  collection  of  essays  and  stories 
and  dialogues  only  pulled  together  by  the 
binder's  tapes;  as  otherwise  disjointed,  frag- 
mentary, decousue,  a  ''piebald  monstrous 
book/'  a  sort  of  kous-kous,  made  out 
of  the  odds  and  ends  of  a  scribbler's 
note-book.  Some  have  liked  some  morsels, 
others  other  morsels :  it  has  been  a  matter 
of  the  luck  of  the  fork.  Very  few,  one  only 
to  my  knowledge,  can  have  seen  the  thing  as 
it  presented  itself  to  my  flattering  eye — not 
as  a  pudding,  not  as  a  case  of  confectionery 
even,  but  as  a  little  sanctuary  of  images  such 
as  a  pious  heathen  anight  make  of  his  earth- 
enware gods.  Let  us  be  serious:  listen. 
The  thing  is  Criticism  ;  but  some  of  it  is 
criticism  by  trope  and  figure.  I  hope  that 
is  plain  enough. 

When  the  first  man  heard  his  first  thun- 
derstorm he  said  {or  Human  Nature  has 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION 

bettered  itself),  "  Certainly  a  God  is  mi- 
gry."  When  after  a  night  of  doubt  and 
heaviness  the  sun  rose  out  of  the  sea,  the 
sea  kindled,  and  all  its  waves  laughed  in- 
numerably, again  he  said,  "  God  is  stir- 
ring. Joy  cometh  in  the  morning. ' '  Even 
in  saying  so  much  he  was  making  images, 
poor  man,  for  one's  soul  is  as  dumb  as  a 
fish  and  can  only  talk  by  signs.  But  by 
degrees,  as  his  hand  grew  obedient  to  his 
heart,  he  set  to  work  to  make  more  lasting 
images  of  these  gods — Thunder  Gods,  Gods 
of  the  Sun  and  the  Morning.  And  as  these 
gods  were  the  sum  of  the  best  feelings  he 
had,  so  the  images  of  them  were  the  best 
things  he  made.  And  that  goes  on  now 
whenever  a  young  man  sees  something  new 
or  strange  or  beautiful.  He  wonders,  he 
falls  on  his  face,  he  would  say  his  prayers  ; 
he  rises  up,  he  would  sing  a  pcean.  But  he 
is  dumb,  the  wretch  !  He  must  niake  im- 
ages. This  he  does  because  Necessity  drives 
him  :  this  I  have  done.  And  part  of  the 
world  calls  the  result  Criticism,  and  another 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION 

part  says.  It  may  be  Art.  But  I  know  that 
it  is  the  struggling  of  a  dumb  man  to  find 
an  outlet,  and  I  call  it  Religion. 

"God  first  made  man,  and  straightway  man  made 

God  : 
No  wonder  if  a  tang  of  that  same  sod, 
Whereout  we  issued  at  a  breath,  should  cling 
To  all  we  fashion.     We  can  only  plod 
Lit  by  a  starveling  candle  ;  and  we  sing 
Of  what  we  can  remember  of  the  road." 

The  vague  informed,  the  lovely  indefinite 
defined:  that  is  Art.  As  a  sort  of  pate 
sur  pate  comes  Criticism,  to  do  for  Art 
what  Art  does  for  life.  I  have  tried  in  this 
book  to  be  the  artist  at  second-hand,  to 
make  pictures  of  pictures,  images  of  images, 
poems  of  poems.  You  may  call  it  Criticism, 
you  may  call  it  Art :  I  call  it  Religion.  It 
is  making  the  best  thing  I  can  out  of  the  best 
things  I  feel. 

One  thing  is  very  plain  ;  whatever  may 
be  said  of  my  pictures,  Mr.  Kerr  Lawson  in 
his  has  brought  the  very  breath  of  the  places 


PREFACE  TO  THE  SECOND  EDITION 

he,  you,  and  I  love.  I  come  jigging  with  my 
commentary  at  his  heels,  and  am  well  con- 
tent;  for  I  know  I  shall  have  a  chance  of  a 
hearing  while  he  holds  your  eyes. 

LOKDON.    1808. 


ADVERTISEMENT 

Polite  reader,  you  who  have  travelled 
Italy,  it  will  not  be  unknown  to  you  that 
the  humbler  sort  in  thai  country  have  ever 
believed  certain  spots  and  recesses  of  their 
land  —  as  wells,  mountain -paths,  farm- 
steads, groves  of  ilex  or  olive,  quiet  pine- 
woods,  creeks  or  bays  of  the  sea,  and  such 
like  hidden  ways — to  be  the  chosen  resort  of 
familiar  spirits,  baleful  or  beneficent,  fate- 
ridden  or  amenable  to  prayer,  half  divine, 
wholly  out  of  rule  or  ordering  ;  which  rustic 
deities  and  genii  locorum,  //  it  was  not 
needful  to  propitiate,  it  was  fascination  to 
observe.  It  is  believed  of  them  in  the  hill- 
country  round  about  Perugia  and  in  the 
quieter  parts  of  Tuscany,  that  they  are  still 
present,  tolerated  of  God  by  reason  of  their 
origin  {which  is,  indeed,  that  of  the  very 
soil  whose  effluence  they  are),  chastened, 
circumscribed,  and,  as  it  were,  combed  or 


ADVERTISEMENT 

pared  of  evil  desire  and  import.  To  them 
or  their  avatars  (//  matters  little  which)  the 
rude  people  still  bow  down ;  they  still 
humour  them  with  gifts  of  flowers,  songs, 
or  artless  customs  (as  of  May-day  or  the 
Giorno  de'  Grilli) ;  you  may  still  see  wayside 
shrines,  votive  tablets,  humble  offerings,  set 
in  a  farm-wall  or  country  hedge,  starry  and 
fresh  as  a  patch  of  yellow  flowers  in  a  rye- 
field.  If  you  say  that  they  have  made  gods 
in  their  own  image,  you  do  not  convince 
them  of  Sin,  for  they  do  as  their  betters. 
If  you  say  their  gods  are  earthy,  they  reply 
by  asking,  "What  then  are  we?"  For 
they  will  admit,  and  you  cannot  deny, 
earthiness  to  have  at  least  a  part  in  all  of 
us.  And  you  are  forbidden  to  call  this 
unhappy,  since  God  made  all.  Out  of  the 
drenched  earth  whence  these  worshippers 
arose,  they  m^ade  their  rough-cast  gods  ;  out 
of  the  same  earth  they  still  mould  images  to 
speak  the  presentment  of  them  which  they 
have.  Out  of  that  earth,  I,  a  northern 
image-maker,  have  set  up  my  conceits  of 


ADVERTISEMENT 

their  informing  spirits,  of  the  spirits  of 
themselves,  their  soil,  and  the  fair  works 
they  have  accomplished.  So  I  have  called 
this  book  Earthwork  out  of  Tuscany.  Qui 
habet  aures  ad  audiendum  audiat. 
London,  1895. 


CONTENTS 

Page 

Proem  :  Apologia  pro  lihello  . 

I 

I.  Eye  of  Italy      .            .            .            . 

12 

//.  Little  Flowers 

29 

III.  A  Sacrifice  at  Prato   . 

4« 

IV.   Of  Poets  and  Needlework 

60 

V.   Of  Boils  and  the  Ideal 

75 

VI.   The  Soul  of  a  Fact     . 

98 

Vll.   Qtiattrocentisteria 

114 

Vlll.  The  Burden  of  New  Tyre 

•47 

IX.  llaria,  Mariota,   Bettina 

>57 

X.  Cats      .... 

160 

XI.  The  Soul  of  a  City     . 

180 

XU.   With  the  Brown  Bear 

'97 

XIU.  Dead  Churches  in  Foligno 

210 

Envoy  :  To  all  you  Ladies 

227 

XV    • 


ILLUSTRATIONS  IN 
PHOTOGRAVURE 

Page 

Tietro  Terugino  .  .  Frontispiece 

Florence  ......  6 

From  San  Miniato  on  the  Mount. 

Madonna  and  Child      .  .  .  .52 

From,  the  group  by  A  ndrea  Delia  Robbia  in  the 
Cathedral.,  Prato. 

The  Assumption  of  the  Virgin  .  .         94 

Group  /rom.  the  painting  by  Pietro  Vannucci, 
called  Perugino.,  in  the  gallery  of  the  Academy 
0/  Fine  A  rts^  Florence. 

Judith  and  Holof ernes  .  .  .100 

From  the  group  by  Donatella  in  the  Loggia  o/  the 
Lanzi.,  Florence. 

Judith     .  .  .  .  .  .106 

From  the  painting  by  Botticelli  in  the  Uffizi  Gal- 
lery., Florence. 

Alessandro  Botticelli      .  .  .  .112 

Church  of  San  Giovanni  Fuorcivitas,  Vistoia.       200 

Founded  in  the  8th  Century.  Ornamentation  is  of 
the  14th  Century, 

The  Visitation    .....       206 

Group  by  one  of  the  Delia  Robbia  in  the  Church  o/ 
San  Giozianni  FuorcivitaSy  Pistoia. 


ILLUSTRATIONS  OTHER  THAN 
PHOTOGRAVURE 


Page 

Toscanella 

lO 

Earthwork 

12 

"  Queer,  shabby  little  vetture  " 

'7 

The  Dominican  Church. 

24 

The  Plume  of  Santa  Croce 

33 

The  Eternal  Child 

34 

Prato 

48 

Peaches  and  IVine 

56 

The  "Perseus"  of  the  Loggia 

102 

Anadyomene 

144 

La  Mangia 

•53 

"Madonna  col  Bambino  " 

.       165 

San  Loren:(o 

.       170 

"Carlo  Formaggia  had  limed 

his  bird" 

.       196 

Gothic  and  Latin 

202 

"Faith" 

• 

204 

"JVorks" 

.       223 

XIX 


PROEM 

APOLOGIA  PRO    LIBELLO  SUO :    IN    A  LETTER    TO 
A    FRIEND 

ALTHOUGH  you  know  your  Italy  well, 
you  ask  me,  who  see  her  now  for 
the  first  time,  to  tell  you  how  I  find  her; 
how  she  sinks  into  me ;  wherein  she  fulfils, 
and  wherein  fails  to  fulfil,  certain  dreams 
and  fancies  of  mine  (old  amusements  of 
yours)  about  her.  Here,  truly,  you  show 
yourself  the  diligent  collector  of  human 
documents  your  friends  have  always  be- 
lieved you;  for  I  think  it  can  only  be  ap- 
petite for  acquisition,  to  see  how  a  man 
recognisant  of  the  claims  of  modernity  in 
Art  bears  the  first  brunt  of  the  Old  Masters' 
assault,  that  tempts  you  to  risk  a  rechauffee 
of  Paul  Bourget  and  Walter  Pater,  with 
ana  lightly  culled  from  Symonds,  and,  per- 
chance, the  questionable  support  of  ponder- 
ous references  out  of  Burckhardt.  In  spite 
of  my  waiver  of  the  title,  you  relish  the 
notion  of  a  Modern  face  to  face  with  Botti- 
celli and  Mantegna  and  Perugino  (to  say 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY : 

nothing  of  that  Giotto  who  had  so  much  to 
say  !),  artists  in  whom,  you  think  and  I 
agree,  certain  impressions  strangely  positive 
of  many  vanished  aspects  of  life  remain  to 
be  accounted  for,  and  (it  may  be)  reconciled 
with  modern  visions  of  Art  and  Beauty. 
Well  !  I  am  flattered  and  touched  by  such 
confidence  in  my  powers  of  expression  and 
your  own  of  endurance.  I  look  upon  you 
as  a  late-in-time  Maecenas,  generously  re- 
solved to  defray  the  uttermost  charge  of 
weariness,  that  a  young  writer  may  be  en- 
couraged to  unfold  himself  and  splash  in 
the  pellucid  Tuscan  air.  1  cannot  assert 
that  you  are  performing  an  act  of  charity 
to  mankind,  but  I  can  at  least  assure  you 
that  you  are  doing  more  for  me  than  if  you 
had  settled  my  accounts  with  Messrs.  Cook 
&  Sons,  or  Signora  Vedova  Paolini,  my 
esteemed  landlady.  A  writer  who  is  worth 
anything  accumulates  more  than  he  gives 
off,  and  never  lives  up  to  his  income.  His 
difficulty  is  the  old  one  of  digestion,  Italian 
Art  being  as  crucial  for  the  Modern  as  Ital- 
ian cookery.  Crucial  indeed  !  for  diverse 
are  the  ways  of  the  Hyperboreans  cheek  by 
jowl  with  asciutta  and  Tuscan  table-wine, 
as  any  osteria  will  convince  you.    To  one 


APOLOGIA  PRO  LIBELLO 

man  the  oil  is  a  delight  :  he  will  soak  him- 
self in  it  till  his  thought  swims  viscid  in  his 
pate.  To  another  it  is  abhorrent:  straight- 
way he  calls  for  his  German  vinegar  and 
drowns  the  native  flavour  in  floods  as  bitter 
as  polemics.  Your  wine  too  !  Overweak 
for  water,  says  one,  who  consumes  a  stout 
fiaschone  and  spends  a  stertorous  afternoon 
in  headache  and  cursing  at  the  generous 
home-grown.  Frii^iante  !  cries  your  next 
to  all  his  gods  ;  and  flushes  poison  with 
infected  water.  Crucial  enough.  So  with 
Art.     Goethe  went  to  Assisi. 

"  I  left  on  my  left,"  says  he,  "  the  vast  mass  of  churches, 
piled  Babel-wise  one  over  another — in  one  of  v^hich  rest 
the  remains  of  the  Holy  Saint  Francis  of  Assisi — with 
aversion,  for  I  thought  to  myself  that  the  people  who 
assembled  in  them  were  mostly  of  the  same  stamp  with 
my  captain  and  travelling  companion." 

Truly  an  odd  ground  of  aversion  to  a 
painted  church  that  there  might  be  a  con- 
fessional-box in  the  nave!  But  he  had  no 
eyes  for  Gothic,  being  set  on  the  Temple 
of  Minerva.  The  Right  Honourable  Joseph 
Addison's  views  of  Siena  will  be  familiar 
to  you;  but  an  earlier  still  was  our  excel- 
lent Mr.  John  Evelyn  doing  the  grand  tour; 
going  to  Pisa,  but  seeing  no  frescos  in  the 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

Campo  Santo;  going  to  Florence,  but  see- 
ing neither  Santa  Croce  nor  Santa  Maria 
Novella;  in  his  whole  journey  he  would 
seem  to  have  found  no  earlier  name  than 
Perugino's  affixed  to  a  picture.  Goethe 
was  urbane  to  Francia,  "a  very  respect- 
able artist";  he  was  astonished  at  Man- 
tegna,  ''one  of  the  older  painters,"  but 
accepted  him  as  leading  up  to  Titian  :  and 
so — "thus  was  art  developed  after  the 
barbarous  period."  But  Goethe  had  the 
sweeping  sublimity  of  youth  with  him. 
**  I  have  now  seen  but  two  Italian  cities, 
and  for  the  first  time;  and  1  have  spoken 
with  but  few  persons;  and  yet  I  know  my 
Italians  pretty  well  !  "  Seriously,  where  in 
criticism  do  you  learn  of  an  earlier  painter 
than  Perugino,  until  you  come  to  our  day  ? 
And  where  now  do  you  get  the  raptures 
over  the  Carracci  and  Domenichino  and 
Guercino  and  the  rest  of  them  which  the 
last  century  expended  upon  their  unthrifty 
soil.^  Ruskin  found  Botticelli;  yes,  and 
Giotto.  Roscoe  never  so  much  as  men- 
tions either.  Why  should  he,  honest  man  ? 
They  could  n't  draw!  Cookery  is  very 
like  Art,  as  Socrates  told  Gorgias.  Un- 
fortunately, it  is  far  easier  to  verify  your 


APOLOGIA  PRO  LIBELLO 

impressions  in  the  former  case  than  in  the 
latter.  Yet  that  is  the  first  and  obvious 
duty  of  the  critic — that  is,  the  writer  whom- 
soever. In  my  degree  it  has  been  mine. 
Wherefore,  if  I  unfold  anything  at  all,  it 
shall  not  be  the  Cicerone  nor  the  veiled 
''Anonymous,"  nor  the  Wiederbelebung, 
nor  (1  hope)  the  Mornings  in  Florence,  but 
that  thing  in  which  you  place  such  touch- 
ing reliance — myself  and  my  poor  sensa- 
tions. Ecco !  I  have  nothing  else.  You 
take  a  boy  out  of  school;  you  set  him  to 
book-reading,  give  him  Shakespeare  and  a 
Bible,  set  him  sailing  in  the  air  with  the 
poets;  drench  him  with  painter's  dreams, 
via  Titian's  carmine  and  orange,  Vero- 
nese's rippling  brocades,  Umbrian  morning 
skies,  and  Tuscan  hues  wrought  of  moon- 
beams and  flowing  water — anon  you  turn 
him  adrift  in  Italy,  a  country  where  all 
poets'  souls  seem  to  be  caged  in  crystal 
and  set  in  the  sun,  and  say — "Here, 
dreamer  of  dreams,  what  of  the  day  } " 
Madonna  !  You  ask  and  you  shall  obtain. 
I  proceed  to  expand  under  your  benevo- 
lent eye. 

To   me,  Italy   is   not  so   much  a   place 
where  pictures   have   been  painted  (some 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

of  which  remain  to  testify),  as  a  place 
where  pictures  have  been  lived  and  built; 
I  fail  to  see  how  Perugia  is  not  a  picture  by, 
say,  Astorre  Baglione.  Perhaps  I  should 
be  nearer  the  mark  if  I  said  it  was  a  frozen 
epic.  What  I  mean  is,  that  in  Italy  it  is 
still  impossible  to  separate  the  soul  and 
body  of  the  soil,  to  say,  as  you  may  say  in 
London  or  Paris, — here  behind  this  sordid 
grey  mask  of  warehouses  and  suburban 
villas  lurks  the  soul  that  once  was  Shakes- 
peare or  once  was  Villon.  You  will  not  say 
that  of  Florence  ;  you  will  hardly  say  it 
(though  the  time  is  at  hand)  of  Milan  and 
Rome.  Do  the  gondoliers  still  sing  snatches 
of  Ariosto  ?  I  don't  know  Venice.  M. 
Bourget  assures  me  his  vetitirino  quoted 
Dante  to  him  between  Monte  Pulciano  and 
Siena;  and  I  believe  him.  At  any  rate,  in 
Italy  as  I  have  found  it,  the  inner  secret  of 
Italian  life  can  be  read,  not  in  painting 
alone,  nor  poem  alone,  but  in  the  swift 
sun,  in  the  streets  and  shrouded  lanes,  in 
the  golden  pastures,  in  the  plains  and  blue 
mountains;  in  flowery  cloisters  and  carved 
church  porches — out  of  doors  as  well  as  in. 
The  story  of  Troy  is  immortal — why  not 
because  the  Trojans  themselves  live  immor- 

6 


Florence 

From  San  Miniato  on  the  Mount 


APOLOGIA  PRO  LIBELLO 

tal  in  their  fabled  sons  ?  That  being  so,  I 
by  no  means  promise  you  my  sensations 
to  be  of  the  ear-measuring,  nose-rubbing 
sort  now  so  popular.  I  am  bad  at  dates 
and  soon  tire  of  symbols.  My  theology 
may  be  to  seek;  you  may  catch  me  as 
much  for  the  world  as  for  Athanase.  With 
world  and  doctor  I  shall,  indeed,  have  lit- 
tle enough  to  do,  for  wherever  I  go  I  shall 
be  only  on  the  lookout  for  the  soul  of 
this  bright-eyed  people,  whom,  being  no 
Goethe,  1  do  not  profess  to  understand 
or  approve.  Must  the  lover  do  more  than 
love  his  mistress,  and  weave  his  sonnets 
about  her  white  brows  ?  I  may  see  my 
mistress  Italy  embowered  in  a  belfry,  a 
fresco,  the  scope  of  a  piazza,  the  lilt  of  a 
stornello,  the  fragrance  of  a  legend.  If  I 
don't  find  a  legend  to  hand  I  may,  as  lief 
as  not,  invent  one.  It  shall  be  a  legend 
fitted  close  to  the  soul  of  a  fact,  if  I  suc- 
ceed: and  if  I  fail,  put  me  behind  you  and 
take  down  your  four  volumes  of  Rio,  or 
your  four-and-twenty  of  Rosini.  Go  to 
Crowe  and  Cavalcaselle  and  be  wise ! 
Parables  ! — 1  like  the  word — to  go  round 
about  the  thing,  whose  heart  I  cannot  hit 
with  my  small  arm,   marking  the  goodly 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY  : 

masses  and  unobtrusive  meek  beauties  of 
it,  and  longing  for  them  in  vain.  No 
amount  of  dissecting  shall  reveal  the  core 
of  Sandro's  Venus.  For  after  you  have 
pared  off  the  husk  of  the  restorer,  or  bled 
in  your  alembic  the  very  juices  the  crafts- 
man conjured  withal,  you  come  down  to 
the  seamy  wood,  and  Art  is  gone.  Nay, 
but  your  Morelli,  your  Crowe,  ciphering  as 
they  went  for  want  of  thought,  what  did 
they  do  but  screw  Art  into  test-tubes,  and 
serve  you  up  the  fruit  of  their  litmus-paper 
assay  with  vivacity,  may  be, — but  with 
what  kinship  to  the  picture  ?  1  maintain 
that  the  peeling  and  gutting  of  fact  must 
be  done  in  the  kitchen:  the  king's  guests 
are  not  to  know  how  many  times  the 
cook's  finger  went  from  cate  to  mouth 
before  the  seasoning  was  proper  to  the 
table.  The  king  is  the  artist,  you  are  the 
guest,  I  am  the  abstractor  of  quintessences, 
the  cook.  Remember,  the  cook  had  not  the 
ordering  of  the  feast :  that  was  the  king's 
business — mine  is  to  mingle  the  flavours 
to  the  liking  of  the  guest  that  the  dish  be 
worthy  the  conception  and  the  king's 
honour. 
Nor  will  I  promise  you  that  I  shall  not 


APOLOGIA  PRO  LIBELLO 

break  into  a  more  tripping  stave  than  our 
prose  can  afford,  here  and  there.  The  pil- 
grim, if  he  is  young  and  his  shoes  or  his 
belly  pinch  him  not,  sings  as  he  goes,  the 
very  stones  at  his  heels  (so  music-steeped 
is  this  land)  setting  him  the  key.  Jog  the 
foot-path  way  through  Tuscany  in  my 
company,  it 's  Lombard  Street  to  my  hat  I 
charm  you  out  of  your  lassitude  by  my  open 
humour.  Things  I  say  will  have  been  said 
before,  and  better;  my  tunes  may  be  stale 
and  my  phrasing  rough :  I  may  be  irrelevant, 
irreverent,  what  you  please.  Eh,  well  !  1 
am  in  Italy, — the  land  of  shrugs  and  laugh- 
ing. Shrug  me  (or  my  book)  away;  but, 
pray  Heaven,  laugh  !  And,  as  the  young 
are  always  very  wise  when  they  find  their 
voice  and  have  their  confidence  well  put 
out  to  usury,  laugh  (but  in  your  cloak) 
when  1  am  sententious  or  apt  to  tears.  I 
have  found  lacrimce  rermn  in  Italy  as  else- 
where; and  sometimes  Life  has  seemed  to 
me  to  sail  as  near  to  tragedy  as  Art  can  do. 
I  suppose  I  must  be  a  very  bad  Christian, 
for  I  remain  sturdily  an  optimist,  still  con- 
vinced that  it  is  good  for  us  to  be  here, 
while  the  sun  is  up.  Men  and  pictures, 
poems,    cities,     churches,     comely    deeds, 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

grow  like  cabbages;  they  are  of  the  soil, 
spring  from  it  to  the  sun,  glow  open- 
hearted  while  he  is  there;  and  when  he 
goes,  they  go.  So  grew  Florence,  and 
Shakespeare,  and  Greek  myth — the  three 
most  lovely  flowers  of  Nature's  seeding  I 
know  of.  And  with  the  flowers  grow  the 
weeds.  My  first  weed  shall  sprout  by 
Arno,  in  a  cranny  of  the  Ponte  Vecchio,  or 
cling  like  a  Dryad  of  the  wood  to  some 
gnarly  old  olive  on  the  hillside  of  Arcetri. 
If  it  bear  no  little  gold-seeded  flower,  or  if 
its  pert  leaves  don't  blush  under  the  sun's 
caress,  it  sha  n't  be  my  fault  or  the  sun's. 

Take,  then,  my  watered  wine  in  the 
name  of  the  Second  Maccabaean,  for  here, 
as  he  says,  "  will  I  make  an  end.  And  if  I 
have  done  well,  and  as  is  fitting  the  story, 
it  is  that  which  I  desired:  but  if  slenderly 
and  meanly,  it  is  that  which  1  could  attain 
unto." 

I  have  killed  you  at  the  first  cast.  I  feel 
it.  Has  any  city,  save,  perhaps,  Cairo, 
been  so  written  out  as  Florence  ?  I  hear 
you  querulous;  you  raise  your  eyebrows; 
you  sigh  as  you  watch  the  tottering  ash  of 
your  second  cigar.  Mrs.  Brown  comes  to 
tell  you  it  is  late.     I  agree  with  you  quickly. 


/fy 


.^w, 
W 


#pw%^^'m»«- 


TOSCANELLA 


APOLOGIA  PRO  LIBELLO 

Florence  has  often  been  sketched  before — 
putting  Browning  aside  with  his  astounding 
fresco-music — by  Ruskin  and  George  Eliot 
and  Mr.  Henry  James,  to  name  only  mas- 
ters. But  that  is  no  reason  why  1  should 
not  try  my  prentice  hand.  Florence  alters 
not  at  all.  Men  do.  My  picture,  poor  as 
you  like,  shall  be  my  own.  It  is  not  their 
Florence  or  yours, — and,  remember,  I  would 
strike  at  Tuscany  through  Florence,  and 
throughout  Tuscany  keep  my  eye  in  her 
beam, — but  my  own  mellow  kingcup  of  a 
town,  the  glowing  heart  of  the  whole  Arno 
basin,  whose  suave  and  weather-warmed 
grace  1  shall  try  to  catch  and  distil.  But 
Mrs.  Brown  is  right;  it  is  late:  the  huntsmen 
are  up  in  America,  as  your  good  kinsman 
has  it,  and  1  would  never  have  you  act  your 
own  Antipodes.     Addio. 


EYE   OF  .ITALY  ' 

[HAVE  been  here  a  few  days  only — per- 
haps a  week;  if  it  's  impressionism 
you  're  after,  the  time  is  now  or  a  year 
hence.  For,  in  these  things  of  three  stages, 
two  may  be  tolerable:  the  first  clouding  of 
the  water  with  the  wine's  red  fire,  or  the 
final  resolution  of  the  two  into  one  humane 
consistence;  the  intermediate  course  is,  like 
all  times  of  process,  brumous  and  hesitant. 
After  a  dinner  in  the  white  piazza,  shrink- 
ing slowly  to  blue  under  the  keen  young 
moon's  eye,  watched  over  jealously  by  the 
frowning  bulk  of  Brunelleschi's  globe — 
after  a  dinner  of  pasta  con  brodo,  veal  cut- 
lets, olives,  and  a  bottle  of  right  "Barbera, 
let  me  give  you  a  pastel  (this  is  the  medium 
for  such  evanescences)  of  Florence  herself. 
At  present  I  only  feel.  No  one  should  think 
— few  people  can — after  dinner.  Be  patient 
therefore;  suffer  me  thus  far. 

'  My  thanks  are  due  to  the  editor  of  Black  and  White 
for  permission  to  reprint  the  substance  of  this  essay. 


EYE  OF  ITALY 

I  would  Spare  you,  if  I  might,  the  horrors 
of  my  night-long  journey  from  Milan. 
There  is  little  romance  in  a  railway:  the 
novelists  have  worked  it  dry.  That  is, 
however,  a  part  of  my  sum  of  perceptions 
which  began,  you  may  put  it,  at  the  dawn 
which  saw  Florence  and  me  face  to  face. 
So  1  must  in  no  wise  omit  it. 

I  find,  then,  that  Italian  railway-carriages 
are  constructed  for  the  convenience  of  lug- 
gage, and  that  passengers  are  an  after- 
thought, as  dogs  or  grooms  are  with  us, 
to  be  suffered  only  if  there  be  room,  and  on 
condition  they  look  after  the  luggage.  In 
my  case  we  had  our  full  complement  of 
the  staple;  nevertheless,  every  passenger 
assumed  the  god,  keeping  watch  on  his 
traps,  and  thinking  to  shake  the  spheres  at 
every  fresh  arrival.  Thoughtless  behaviour! 
for  there  were  thus  twelve  people  packed 
into  a  rocky  landscape  of  cardboard  port- 
manteaus and  umbrella-peaks;  twenty-four 
legs,  and  urgent  need  of  stretching-room  as 
the  night  wore  on.  There  was  jostling, 
there  was  asperity  from  those  who  could 
sleep  and  from  those  who  would;  there 
was  more  when  two  shock-head  drovers — 
like  First  and  Second  Murderers  in  a  tragedy 

13 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

— insisted  on  taking  off  their  boots.  It  was 
not  that  there  was  little  room  for  boots; 
indeed  I  think  they  nursed  them  on  their 
thin  knees.  It  was  at  any  rate  too  much 
even  for  an  Italian  passenger;  for — well, 
well!  their  way  had  been  a  hot  and  a  dusty 
one,  poor  fellows.  So  the  guard  was  sum- 
moned, and  came  with  all  the  implicit 
powers  of  a  uniform  and,  I  believe,  a 
sword.  The  boots  were  strained  on  suffi- 
ciently to  preserve  the  amenities  of  the 
way;  they  could  not,  of  course,  be  what 
they  had  been ;  the  carriage  was  by  this  a 
forcing-house.  And  through  the  long  night 
we  ached  away  an  intolerable  span  of  time 
with,  for  under-current,  for  sinister  accom- 
paniment to  the  pitiful  strain,  the  muffled 
interminable  plodding  of  the  engine,  and 
the  rack  of  the  wheels  pulsing  through 
space  to  the  rhythm  of  some  music-hall 
jingle  heard  in  snatches  at  home.  At  in- 
tervals came  shocks  of  contrast  when  we 
were  brought  suddenly  face  to  face  with  a 
gaunt  and  bleached  world.  Then  we  stirred 
from  our  stupor,  and  sat  looking  at  each 
other's  stale  faces.  We  had  shrieked  and 
clanked  our  way  into  some  great  naked 
station,  shivering  raw  and  cold  under  the 

14 


EYE  OF  ITALY 

electric  lights,  streaked  with  black  shad- 
ows on  its  whitewash  and  patched  with 
coarse  advertisements.  The  porters'  voices 
echoed  in  the  void,  shouting  "  Piacenia," 
' '  Parma, "  "  Reggio, "  "  Modena, ' '  '  'Bo- 
logna," with  infinite  relish  for  the  vaVied 
hues  of  the  final  a.  One  or  two  cowed 
travellers  slippered  up  responsive  to  the 
call,  and  we,  the  veterans  who  endured, 
set  our  teeth,  shuddered,  and  smoked  fever- 
ish cigarettes  on  the  platform  among  the 
carriage-wheels  and  points;  or,  if  we  were 
new  hands,  watched  awfully  the  advent 
of  another  sleeping  train,  as  dingy  as  our 
own — yet  a  hero  of  romance!  For  it  bore 
the  hieratic  and  tremendous  words,  "Roma, 
Firenie,  Milano."  It  was  privileged  then; 
it  ministered  in  the  sanctuary.  We  glowed 
in  our  sordid  skins,  and  could  have  kissed 
the  foot-boards  that  bore  the  dust  of  Rome. 
I  will  swear  1  shall  never  see  those  three 
words  printed  on  a  carriage  without  a 
thrill.  Roma,  Firenie,  Milano,  —  Lord  ! 
what  a  traverse. 

Or  we  held  long,  purposeless  rests  at 
small  wayside  places  where  no  station 
could  be  known,  and  the  shrouded  land 
stretched    away    on    either    side,    not    to 

15 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

be  seen,  but  rather  felt,  in  the  cool  airs 
that  blew  in,  and  the  rustling  of  secret 
trees  near  by.  No  further  sound  was,  save 
the  muttered  talking  of  the  guards  without 
and  the  simmering  of  the  engine,  on  some- 
where in  front.  And  then  ''  Partenia!  " 
rang  out  in  the  night,  and  '"  Pronti!  " 
came  as  a  faint  echo  on  before.  We  la- 
boured on,  and  the  dreams  began  where 
they  had  broken  off.  For  we  dreamed  in 
these  times,  fitful  and  lurid,  coloured 
dreams;  flashes  of  horrible  crises  in  one's 
life;  interminable  precipices;  a  river  skiff 
engulfed  in  a  swirl  of  green  sea- water; 
agonies  of  repentance;  shameful  failure, 
defeat,  memories — and  then  the  steady 
pulsing  of  the  engine,  and  thick,  imperme- 
able darkness  choking  up  the  windows 
again.     How  I  ached  for  the  dawn  ! 

I  awoke  from  what  I  believe  to  have 
been  a  panic  of  snoring,  to  hear  the  train 
clattering  over  the  sleepers  and  points, 
and  to  see — oh,  human,  brotherly  sight  ! — 
the  broad  level  light  of  morning  stream  out 
of  the  east.  We  were  stealing  into  a  city 
asleep.  Tall  flat  houses  rose  in  the  chill 
mist  to  our  left  and  stared  blankly  down 
upon  us  with  close-barred  green  eyelids. 

I6 


EYE  OF  ITALY 

Gas-lamps  in  swept  streets  flickered  dirty 
yellow  in  the  garish  light.  A  great  purple 
dome  lay  ahead,  flanked  by  the  ruddy  roofs 
and  gables  of  a  long  church.  My  heart 
leapt  for  Florence.     Pistoja! 

And  then,  at  Prato,  a  nut-brown  old 
woman  with  a  placid  face  got  into  our  car- 
riage with  a  basket  of  green  figs  and  some 


bottles  of  milk  for  the  Florentine  markets. 
So  we  were  nearing.  And  soon  we  ran  in 
between  lines  of  white  and  pink  villas 
edged  with  rows  of  planes  d^'enched  still 
with  dews  and  the  night  mists,  among  bul- 
lock-carts and  queer  shabby  little  vetture, 
everything  looking  light  and  elfin  in  the 
brisk  sunshine  and  autumn  bite — into  the 
barrel-like  station,  and  1  into  the  arms,  say 
rather  the   arm-chair,   of  Signora  Vedova 

2 

17 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

Paolini,    chattiest  and  most    motherly   of 
landladies. 

Earth,  Air,  Fire,  Water,  Florence,  form 
the  five  elements  of  our  planet  according  to 
the  testimony  of  Boniface  Vlll.  of  clamant 
and  not  very  Catholic  memory.  That  is 
true  if  you  take  it  this  way.  You  cannot 
resolve  an  element;  but  you  cannot  resolve 
Florence;  therefore  Florence  is  an  element. 
Ecco  !  She  is  like  nothing  else  in  Nature, 
or  (which  is  much  the  same  thing)  Art. 
You  can  have  olives  elsewhere,  and  Gothic 
elsewhere ;  you  can  have  both  at  Aries,  for 
instance.  You  can  have  campanili  printed 
white  (but  not  rose-and-white,  not  rose- 
and- gold -and -white)  on  blue  anywhere 
along  the  Mediterranean  from  Tripoli  to 
Tangier:  you  will  find  Giotto  at  Padua,  and 
statues  growing  in  the  open  air  at  Naples. 
But  for  the  silvery  magic  of  olives  and 
blue;  for  a  Gothic  which  has  the  supernat- 
ural and  always  restless  eagerness  of  the 
North,  held  in  check,  reduced  to  our  level 
by  the  blessedly  human  sanity  of  Roman- 
esque ;  for  sculpture  which  sprouts  from  the 
crumbling  church-sides  like  some  frankly 
happy  stonecrop,  or  wallflower,  just  as 
wholesomely  coloured  and  tenderly  shaped, 


EYE  OF  ITALY 

you  must  come  to  Florence.  Come  for 
choice  in  this  golden  afternoon  of  the  year. 
Green  figs  are  twelve-a-penny;  you  can 
get  peaches  for  the  asking,  and  grapes  and 
melons  without  it;  brown  men  are  treading 
the  wine-fat  in  every  little  white  hill-town, 
and  in  Florence  itself  you  may  stumble 
upon  them,  as  I  once  did,  plying  their  mys- 
tery in  a  battered  old  church — sight  only  to 
be  seen  in  Italy,  where  religions  have  been 
many,  but  religionists  substantially  the 
same.  That  is  the  Italian  way;  there  was 
the  practical  evidence.  Imagine  the  sight. 
A  gaunt  and  empty  old  basilica,  the  beams 
of  the  rood  still  left,  the  dye  of  fresco  still 
round  the  walls  and  tribune — here  the  dim 
figure  of  Sebastian  roped  to  his  tree,  there 
the  cloudy  forms  of  Apostles  or  the  Heav- 
enly Host  shadowed  in  masses  of  crimson 
or  green — and,  down  below,  a  slippery 
purple  sea,  frothed  sanguine  at  the  edges, 
and  wild,  half-naked  creatures  treading  out 
the  juice,  dancing  in  the  oozy  stuff  rhythm- 
ically, to  the  music  of  some  wailing  air  of 
their  own.  Sattirnia  regna  indeed,  and  in 
the  haunt  of  Sant'  Ambrogio,  or  under  the 
hungry  eye  of  San  Bernardino,  or  other  lean 
ascetic  of  the  Middle  Age.     But  that,  after 

19 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY  : 

all,  is  Italian,  not  necessarily  Florentine  or 
Tuscan.  1  must  needs  abstract  the  unique 
quintessential  humours  of  this  my  eye  of 
Italy.  Stendhal,  do  you  remember  ?  did  n't 
like  one  of  these.  He  said  that  in  Florence 
people  talked  about  "huestahasa"  when 
they  would  say  "questa  casa,"  and  thus 
turned  Italian  into  a  mad  Arabic.  So  they 
do,  especially  the  women :  why  not  ?  The 
poor  Stendhal  loved  Milan,  wrote  himself 
down  *'Arrigo  Milanese" — and  what  can 
you  expect  from  a  Milanese  ? 

They  tell  me,  who  know  Florence  well, 
that  she  is  growing  unwieldy.  Like  a 
bulky  old  concierge,  they  say,  she  sits  in 
the  passage  of  her  Arno,  swollen,  fat,  and 
featureless,  a  kind  of  Chicago,  a  city  of 
tame  conveniences  ungraced  by  arts.  That 
means  that  there  are  suburbs  and  tramways ; 
it  means  that  the  gates  will  not  hold  her  in ; 
it  has  a  furtive  stab  at  the  railway  station 
and  the  omnibus  in  the  Piazza  del  Duomo: 
it  is  Mornings  in  Florence.  The  sugges- 
tion is  that  Art  is  some  pale  remote  virgin 
who  must  needs  shiver  and  withdraw  at 
the  touch  of  actual  life  :  the  art-lover  must 
maunder  over  his  mistress's  wrongs  instead 
of  manfully  insisting  upon  her  rights,  her 


EYE  OF  ITALY 

everlasting  triumphant  justifications.  Why 
this  watery  talk  of  an  Art  that  was  and  may 
not  be  again,  because  we  go  to  bed  by 
electricity  and  have  our  hair  brushed  by 
machinery  ?  Pray  has  Nature  ceased  ?  or 
Life  ?  Art  will  endure  with  these  fine  things, 
which  in  Florence,  let  me  say,  are  very  fine 
indeed.  But  there  's  a  practical  answer  to 
the  indictment.  As  a  city  she  is  a  mere 
cupful.  You  can  walk  from  Cantagalli's, 
at  the  Roman  Gate,  to  the  Porta  San  Gallo, 
at  the  end  of  the  Via  Cavour,  in  half  the 
time  it  would  take  you  to  go  from  New- 
gate to  Kensington  Gardens.  Yet  whereas 
in  London  such  a  walk  would  lead  you 
through  a  slice  of  a  section,  in  Florence 
you  would  cut  through  the  whole  city 
from  hill  to  hill.  You  are  never  away  from 
the  velvet  flanks  of  the  Tuscan  hills.  Every 
street-end  smiles  an  enchanting  vista  upon 
you.  Houses  frowning,  machicolated  and 
sombre,  or  gay  and  golden-white  with  cool 
green  jalousies  and  spreading  eaves,  stretch 
before  you  through  mellow  air  to  a  distance 
where  they  melt  into  hills,  and  hills  into 
sky;  into  sky  so  clear  and  rarely  blue,  so 
virgin  pale  at  the  horizon,  that  the  hills 
sleep  brown  upon  it  under  the  sun,  and  the 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

cypresses,  nodding  a-row,  seem  funeral 
weeds  beside  that  radiant  purity.  Some 
such  adorable  stretch  of  tilth  and  pasture, 
sky  and  cloud,  hangs  like  a  god's  crown 
beyond  the  city  and  her  towers.  In  the 
long  autumn  twilight  Fiesole  and  the  hills 
lie  soft  and  purple  below  a  pale  green  sky. 
There  is  a  pause  at  this  time  when  the  air 
seems  washed  for  sleep — every  shrub,  every 
feature  of  the  landscape  is  cut  clean  as  with 
a  blade.  The  light  dies,  the  air  deepens  to 
wet  violet,  and  the  glimpses  of  the  hill- 
town  gleam  like  snow.  At  such  times 
Samminiato  looms  ghostly  upon  you  and 
fades  slowly  out  The  flush  in  the  East 
faints  and  fails  and  the  evening  star  shines 
like  a  gem.  It  is  hot  and  still  in  the  broad 
Piazza  Santa  Maria  ;  they  are  lighting  the 
lamps;  the  swarm  grows  of  the  eager, 
shabby,  spendthrift  crowd  of  young  Ital- 
ians, so  light-hearted  and  fluent,  and  so 
prodigal  of  this  old  Italy  of  theirs — and  ours. 
All  this  I  have  been  watching  as  I  might. 
Nature  clings  to  the  city,  playing  her 
rhythmic  dance  at  the  end  of  every  street. 
Nature  clings.  Yes;  but  she  is  within  as 
well  as  without.  What  is  that  sentimental 
platitude  of  somebody's  (the  worst  kind  of 

22 


EYE  OF  ITALY 

platitude,  is  it  not  ?)  about  the  sun  being 
to  flowers  what  Art  is  to  Life  ?  It  has  the 
further  distinction  of  being  untrue.  In 
Florence  you  learn  that  what  he  is  to  flow- 
ers, that  he  is  to  Art.  For  I  soberly  believe 
that  under  his  rays  Florence  has  grown 
open  like  some  rare  white  water-lily;  that 
sun  and  sky  have  set  the  conditions,  struck, 
as  it  were,  the  chord.  1  have  wandered 
through  and  through  her  recessed  ways  the 
length  ot  this  bright  and  breezy  October 
week;  and  have  marked  where  I  walked 
the  sun's  great  hand  laid  upon  palace  and 
cloister  and  bell-tower.  He  has  summoned 
up  these  flat-topped  houses,  these  pre- 
cipitous walls  beneath  which  winds  the 
darkened  causeway.  One  seems  to  be 
travelling  in  a  mountain  gorge  with,  above, 
a  thin  ribbon  of  sky,  fluid  blue,  flawless  of 
cloud,  like  the  sea.  He,  that  so  masterful 
sun,  has  given  Florence  the  apathetic,  beaten 
aspect  of  a  southern  town  ;  he  and  the 
temperate  sky  have  fixed  the  tone  for  ever; 
and  the  nimble  air — ''  nimbly  and  sweetly  " 
recommending  itself — has  given  the  quaint- 
ness  and  the  freaksomeness  of  the  North. 
This  bursts  out,  young  and  irresponsible, 
in  pinnacle,  crocket,  and  gable,  in  towers 

23 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

like  spears,  and  in  the  eager  lancet  win- 
dows which  peer  upwards  out  of  Orsam- 
michele  and  the  Dominican  church.  This 
mixture  is  Florence  and  has  made  her  art. 
The  blue  of  the  sky  gives  the  key  to  her 
palette,  the  breath  of  the  west  wind,  the 
salt  wind  from  our  own  Atlantic,  tingles  in 
her  campanili;  and  the  Italian  sun  washes 
over  all  with  his  lazy  gold.  Habit  and  in- 
clination both  speak.  She  rejects  no  wise 
thing  and  accepts  every  lovely  thing.  Na- 
ture and  Art  have  worked  hand  in  hand,  as 
they  will  when  we  let  them.  For  what  is 
an  art  so  inimitable,  so  innocent,  so  intim- 
ate as  this  of  Tuscany,  after  all,  but  a  high 
effort  of  creative  Nature — Natura  naturans, 
as  Spinosa  calls  her  ?  Here,  on  the  weather- 
fretted  walls,  a  Delia  Robbia  blossoms  out 
in  natural  colours — blue  and  white  and 
green.  They  are  Spring's  colours.  You 
need  not  go  into  the  Bargello  to  understand 
Luca  and  Andrea  at  their  happy  task;  as 
well  go  to  a  botanical  museum  to  read  the 
secret  of  April.  See  them  on  the  dusty 
wall  of  Orsammichele.  They  have  wrought 
the  blossom  of  the  stone — clusters  of  bright- 
eyed  flowers  with  the  throats  and  eyes  of 
angels,  singing,  you  might  say,  a  children's 

24 


■f4 

\i 

y    L 

••/:•' !  f- 

^  U 

'^r 

..Jt 

;.;■    :}_ 

J 

1 

0,, 

1    '     ! 

4^ 

0 

E 

'■■  ■  W 

-           1     (• 

^ 

[' 

1:! 

1 

~~~"~' — -•^ji^  "^ 

^             j 
*■ 

\y 

EYE  OF  ITALY 

hymn  to  Our  Lady,  throned  and  pure  in  the 
midst  of  the  bevy.  See  the  Spedale  degli 
Innocenti,  where  a  score  of  little  flowery 
white  children  grow,  open-armed,  out  of 
their  sky-blue  medallions.  Really,  are  they 
lilies,  or  children,  or  the  embodied  strophes 
of  a  psalter  ?  you  ask.  I  mix  my  metaphors 
like  an  Irishman,  but  you  will  see  my 
meaning.  All  the  arts  blend  in  art:  "  Rien 
ne  fait  mieux  entendre  combien  un  faux 
sonnet  est  ridicule  que  de  s'imaginer  una 
femme  ou  une  maison  faite  sur  ce 
modele-la."  Pascal  knew;  and  so  did 
Philip  Sidney.  "Nature  never  set  forth 
the  earth  in  so  rich  tapestry  as  divers  poets 
have  done  " ;  and  the  nearer  truth  seems  to 
be  that  Art  is  Nature  made  articulate,  Na- 
ture's soul  inflamed  with  love  and  voicing 
her  secrets  through  one  man  to  many.  So 
there  may  be  no  difference  between  me 
and  a  cabbage-rose  but  this,  that  1  can  con- 
sider my  own  flower,  how  it  grows,  or 
rather,  when  it  is  grown. 

It  is  very  pleasant  sometimes  to  think 
that  wistful  guess  of  Plato's  true  in  spite  of 
everything — that  the  state  is  the  man  grown 
great,  as  the  universe  is  the  state  grown 
infinite.      It  explains  that  Florence  has  a 

25 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY : 

soul,  the  broader  image  of  her  sons',  and 
that  this  soul  speaks  in  Art,  utters  itself  in 
flower  of  stone  and  starry  stretches  of 
fresco  (like  that  serene  blue  and  grey  band 
in  the  Sistine  chapel  which  redeems  so 
many  of  Rome's  waste  places),  sings 
colour-songs  (there  are  such  affairs)  on 
church  and  cloister  walls.  Seeing  these 
good  things,  we  should  rather  hear  the 
town's  voice  crying  out  her  fancy  to  friendly 
hearts.  Thus — let  me  run  the  figure  to 
death — if  Luca's  blue-eyed  medallions  are 
the  crop  of  the  wall,  they  are  also  the  soul 
of  Florence,  singing  a  blithe  secular  song 
about  gods  whose  abiding  charm  is  the  art 
that  made  them  live.  And  if  the  towers 
and  domes  are  the  statelier  flowers  of  the 
garden,  hly,  hollyhock,  tulip  of  the  red 
globe,  so  they  are  Florence  again  as  she 
strains  forward  and  up,  sternly  defiant  in 
the  Palazzo  Vecchio,  bright  and  curious  at 
Santa  Croce,  pure,  chaste  as  a  seraph,  when, 
thrilling  with  the  touch  of  Giotto,  she  gazes 
in  the  clarity  of  her  golden  and  rosy  marbles, 
tinted  like  a  pearl  and  shaped  like  an  arch- 
angel, towards  the  blue  vault  whose  eye 
she  is. 
Wandering,  therefore,  through  this  high 
26 


EYE  OF  ITALY 

city;  loitering  on  the  bridge  whereunder 
turbid  Arno  glitters  like  brass;  standing  by 
the  yellow  Baptistery;  or  seeing  in  Santa 
Croce  cloister — where  I  write  these  lines — 
seven  centuries  of  enthusiasm  mellowed 
down  by  sun  and  wind  into  a  comely 
dotage  of  grey  and  green,  one  is  disposed 
to  wonder  whether  we  are  only  just  begin- 
ning to  understand  Art,  or  to  misunder- 
stand it?  Has  the  world  slept  for  two 
thousand  years  ?  Is  Degas  the  first  artist? 
Was  Aristotle  the  first  critic,  and  is  Mr. 
George  Moore  the  second  ?  As  a  white 
pigeon  cuts  the  blue,  and  every  pinion  of 
him  shines  as  burnished  agate  in  the  live 
air,  things  shape  themselves  somewhat.  I 
begin  to  see  that  Art  is,  and  that  men  have 
been,  and  shall  be,  but  never  are.  Facts 
are  an  integral  part  of  life,  but  they  are  not 
life.  I  heard  a  metaphysician  say  once  that 
matter  was  the  adjective  of  life,  and  thought 
it  a  mighty  pretty  saying.  In  a  true  sense, 
it  would  seem.  Art  is  that  adjective.  For 
so  surely  as  there  are  honest  men  to  insist 
how  true  things  are  or  how  proper  to 
moralising,  there  will  be  Art  to  sing  how 
lovely  they  are,  and  what  amiable  dwell- 
ings for  us.     Thus  fortified,  I  think  I  can 

27 


EARTHw6rK  out  of  TUSCANY: 

understand  Magister  Joctus  Fiorentiae.  He 
lies  behind  these  crumbling  walls.  Traces 
of  his  crimson  and  blue  still  stain  the  clois- 
ter-walk. What  was  he  telling  us  in  crim- 
son and  blue  ?  How  dumb  Zacharias  spelt 
out  the  name  of  his  son  John  in  the  roll  of 
a  book  ?    Hardly  that,  1  think. 


28 


LITTLE    FLOWERS 

THE  Via  del  Monte  alle  Croce  is  a  leafy 
way  cut  between  hedgerows,  in  the 
morning  time  heavy  with  dew  and  the 
smell  of  wet  flowers.  Where  it  strays  out 
of  the  Gira  al  Monte  there  is  a  crumbly 
brick  wall,  a  well,  and  a  little  earthen 
shrine  to  Madonna — a  daub,  it  is  true,  of 
glaring  chromes  and  blues,  thick  in  glaze 
and  tawdry  devices  of  stout  Cupids  and 
roses,  but  somehow,  on  this  suggestive 
Autumn  morning,  innocent  and  blue  of  eye 
as  the  carolling  throngs  of  Luca  which  it 
travesties.  And  a  pious  inscription  cut  be- 
low testifieth  how  Saint  Francis,  **in 
friendly  talk  with  the  Blessed  Mariano  di 
Lugo,"  paused  here  before  it,  and  then 
vanished.  It  is  not  necessary  to  believe  in 
ghosts;  but  I'll  go  bail  that  story  is  true. 
We  are  but  two  stones'  throw  from  the 
gaunt  hulk  of  a  Franciscan  church;  a  file 
of  dusty  cypresses  marks  the  ruins  of  a 
painful  Calvary  cut  in  the  waste  and  shale 
29 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

of  the  hill-side.  Below,  as  in  a  green  pas- 
ture, Florence  shines  like  a  dove's  egg  in 
her  nest  of  hills  ;  1  can  pick  out  among  the 
sheaf  of  spears  which  hedge  her  about  the 
daintiest  of  them  all,  the  crocketed  pinna- 
cle of  Santa  Croce,  grey  on  blue;  and  then 
the  lean  ridge  of  a  shrine  the  barest,  sim- 
plest, and  most  honest  in  all  Tuscany. 
Certainly  Saint  Francis,  "  familiarmente 
discorrendo,"  appeared  in  this  place.  I  need 
no  reference  to  the  Annals  of  the  Seraphic 
Order — part,  book,  and  page — to  convince 
me.  My  stone  gives  them.  '*Ann.  Ord. 
Min.  Tom.  cclii.  fasc.  3,"  and  so  on.  That 
is  but  a  sorry  concession  to  our  short-sight- 
edness. For  if  we  believe  not  the  shrine 
which  we  have  seen,  how  shall  we  believe 
Giotto  ?  What  of  Giotto  ?  That  is  my 
point. 

Something  too  much,  it  may  be,  of 
modern  art-criticism,  which  is  ashamed  of 
thinking,  snuffeth  at  pictures  which  tell 
you  things,  at  literature  in  books  or  music 
or  church  ornament.  Is  literature  not  good 
anywhere  ?  Have  we  exhausted  the  Ara- 
bian  Nights  or  the  Acta  Sanctorum  ?  At 
any  rate,  if  we  must  choose  between  Giotto 
and  the   prophet  of  the   Yellow  Book,  my 

30 


LITTLE  FLOWERS 

heart  is  fixed.  I  am  for  the  teller  of  tales. 
Story-telling  it  is,  glorification  of  one  whom 
Mr.  George  Moore  would  call  (has,  indeed, 
called)  a  ''squint-eyed  Italian  Saint" — and 
whether  he  objected  to  malformity,  nation- 
ality or  calling,  1  never  could  learn — 
this  too  it  may  be;  it  may  tend  to  edifica- 
tion and  1  know  not  what  beside.  1  will 
grant  all  that.  And  though  it  is  hard  to 
prophesy  what  might  have  happened  five 
hundred  years  ago  ;  though  there  might 
have  been  a  Giotto  without  a  Francis  of 
whom  to  speak;  yet  1  never  knew  a  case 
where  a  painter  (call  him  poet  if  you  will; 
he  will  be  none  the  worse  for  that)  fell  so 
directly  into  the  gap  awaiting  him.  The 
Gospel  living  and  tangible  again!  Spirits, 
apparitions,  as  of  three  mysterious  sisters, 
met  you  in  the  open  country,  and  crying 
"Hail!  Lady  Poverty,"  straightly  vanished. 
A  legend  was  a-making  round  about  the 
strange  life  not  fifty  years  closed,  a  life  which 
seems,  extravagance  apart,  to  have  been  a 
lyrical  outburst,  a  strophe  in  the  hymn  of 
praise  which  certain  happy  people  were 
singing  just  then.  It  was  a  Gloria  in  Excel- 
sis  for  a  second  time  in  Christian  Annals 
which  did  not  end  in  a  wail  of  "  Agnus  Dei, 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

qui  tollis  peccata,  miserere."  Why  should 
it  ?  Should  the  children  of  the  bride-cham- 
ber fast  when  the  bridegroom  was  with 
them  ?  And  of  all  the  "  wreath'd  singers  at 
the  marriage-door,"  blithest  and  sanest  was 
Master  Joctus  of  Florence.  This  being  so,  I 
hope  I  shall  not  be  accused  of  any  mischief 
if  I  say  that  in  Giotto  I  see  one  of  the  select 
company  of  immortals  whose  work  can 
never  be  surpassed  because  it  is  entirely 
adequate  to  the  facts  and  atmosphere  he 
selected.  The  standard  of  a  work  of  art 
must  always  be — Is  it  well  done  ?  rather 
than — Is  it  well  intentioned  ?  Wherefore, 
if  Giotto  or  anybody  else  choose  to  spend 
himself  upon  a  sermon  or  an  essay  or  an 
article  of  the  Creed,  and  do  well  thereby,  1 
may  not  blame  him,  nor  call  him  back  to 
study  the  play  of  light  across  a  marsh  or 
the  flight  of  pigeons  in  the  westering  sun. 
''  Ma,  basta,  basta  cosi,"  you  may  say  with 
the  Cavaliere  of  Goldoni. 

Santa  Croce  church  is  of  the  barrack- 
room  stamp,  dim  and  enormous,  grey  with 
years  and  seamed  with  work.  Its  impress- 
iveness  (for  with  Orvieto  and  a  fleet  of 
churches  at  Ravenna  it  stands  above  all 
Italy  in  that)  consists  mainly,  I  believe,  in 

32 


LITTLE  FLOWERS 


its  being  built  of  exactly  the  moral 
bones  of  the  religion  it  was  intended  to 
embody.  An  Italian  religion,  namely  ; 
perfectly  sane,  at  bottom  practical, 
with  a  base  of  plain,  every-day,  ten- 
commandment  morality.  That  was 
the  base  of  Saint  Francis'  good  brown 
life  :  therefore  Santa  Croce  is  admir- 
ably built,  squared,  mortised,  and 
compacted  by  skilled  workmen  to 
whom  bricklaying  was  a  fine  art. 
But,  withal,  this  religion  had  its  lyric 
raptures,  its  "In  fuoco  Amor 
mi  mise,"  or  its  sobbing  at 
the^feet  of  the  Cruci-  . 
fied,  its  Corotto  and 
Seven  Sorrowful  Mys- 
teries :  accordingly 
Santa  Croce,  like  a 
pollarded  lime,  reserves 
its  buds,  harbours  and 
garners  them,  throws 
out  no  suckers  or  lateral 
adornments  the  length 
of  its  trunk,  but  bursts 
into  a  fiowery  crown 
of  them  at  the  top — a 
whole  row  of  chapels 

3 

33 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

along  the  cross-beam  of  the  tan;  and  in 
the  place  of  honour  a  shallow  apse  pierced 
with  red  lancets  and  aglow  like  an  opal. 
Never  a  chapel  of  them  but  is  worth  study 
and  a  stiff  neck.  After  the  Rule  came 
the  Fioretti ;  after  Francis  and  Bonaventure 
came  Celano  and  Jacopone  da  Todi  ;  after 
Arnolfo  del  Lapo  and  his  attention  to  busi- 
ness came  the  hours  of  ease  when  he  planned 
the  airy  plume  on  which  the  church  leaps 
skyward;  and  came  also  Giotto  to  weave 
the  crown  of  Santa  Croce. 

I  take  the  Tuscan  nature  to  be  so  con- 
stituted that  it  will  play  with  any  given 
subject  of  speculation  in  much  the  same 
way.  With  one  or  two  mighty  exceptions 
to  be  sure — Dante,  of  course,  Buonarroti, 
of  course,  and,  for  all  his  secularities, 
Boccace — it  is  not  imagination  you  find  in 
Tuscany.  Rather,  it  is  a  sweet  and  deli- 
cate, a  wholesome,  a  home-grown  fancy, 
wantoning  with  thought  which  may  be 
unpleasant,  unhealthy,  grave,  frivolous — 
what  you  will  ;  yet  playing  in  such  a  way, 
and  with  such  intuitive  taste  and  breeding 
that  no  harm  ensues  nor  any  nausea.  They 
realise  for  me  a  fairy  country  ;  I  can  think 
no  evil  of  a  Tuscan.     So  I  can  read  Boccace 

34 


X 


THE    ETERNAL    CHILD 


LITTLE  FLOWERS 

the  infidel,  Poggio  the  gross,  where  Vol- 
taire makes  me  a  bigot  and  Catulle  Men- 
des  ashamed.  The  fresh  breeze  blowing 
through  the  Decameron  keeps  the  air  sweet. 
Even  Lorenzo  is  a  child  for  me,  and  Mac- 
chiavel,  *' the  man  without  a  soul,"  I  de- 
cline to  take  seriously.  Consider,  then, 
all  Tuscan  art  from  this  point  of  view,  the 
weaving  of  innocent  fancies  round  some 
chance-caught  theme.  Christianity  may 
have  been  the  point  d  'appui.  No  doubt  it 
generally  was.  What  then }  Have  you 
never  heard  two  children  dreaming  aloud 
of  the  ways  of  God,  or  the  troubles  of 
Christ }  How  they  humanise,  how  they 
realise  the  Mystery  !  Just  such  a  pretty 
babble  1  find  in  the  Spanish  chapel,  which 
to  take  in  any  other  spirit  would  work  a 
madness  in  the  brain.  You  remember  the 
North  wall,  apotheosis  of  Saint  Thomas 
and  what-not,  for  all  the  world  like  a  par- 
adigm of  the  irregular  verb  "Aquinizo." 
What  are  we  to  suppose  Lippo  Memmi  (or 
whoever  else  it  was)  to  have  been  about 
when  he  hung  in  mid-air  on  his  swinging 
bridge  and  stained  the  wet  square  red  and 
green  }  To  read  Ruskin  you  would  think 
he  was  fulminating  urbi  et  orbi  with  the 

35 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

Summa  or  Ctir  Deus  homo  at  his  fingers' 
ends.  Depend  upon  it  he  was  doing  quite 
other,  or  the  artistic  temper  (phrase  rend- 
ered loathsome  by  the  halfpenny  news- 
papers) suffered  a  relapse  between  the  days 
of  King  David  and  the  days  of  his  brother 
Lippo  Lippi.  Are  we  to  suppose  that  a 
man  who  could  live  in  intimate  commerce 
with  fourteen  such  gracious  ladies  as  he 
has  set  there,  ranged  on  their  carved  sedilia 
— his  Britomart  trim  and  debonnaire;  his 
willowy  Carita  ;  his  wimpled  matron  in 
clean  white  who  masquerades  as  I  know 
not  what  branch  of  theology  ;  his  pretty 
girlish  Geometry  of  coiled  and  braided  hair 
and  the  yet  unloosed  girdle  of  demure  vir- 
ginity ;  his  maid  Musica  crowned  with 
roses,  and  Logica,  the  bold-eyed  and 
open-throated  wench,  hand  to  hip — is  this 
the  man  for  sententiousness  ?  Out,  out ! 
Could  anyone  save  a  humourist  of  high 
order  have  given  Moses  such  a  pair  of 
horns,  or  set,  under  Music,  such  a  shagged 
Tubal  to  belabour  an  anvil  ?  The  wall 
sings  like  an  anthology, — a  Gothic  antho- 
logy where  '*  Bele  Aliz  matin  leva"  is 
versicle,  and  'Mn  un  boschetto  trovai  pas- 
torella  "  antiphon.     You  might  as  well  talk 


LITTLE  FLOWERS 

of  Christian  Mathematics  as  of  Christian 
Art,  or  bind  the  sweet  influences  of  Pleiades 
as  the  volant  sallies  of  a  poet's  wit. 

Once  we  get  it  into  our  heads  that  the 
Tuscans  were  fanciful  children,  always,  and 
the  discrepancy  of  critics,  of  Ruskin  and  Mr. 
George  Moore,  of  Rio  and  Mr.  Addington 
Symonds,  may  vanish.  For  another  thing, 
we  shall  understand  and  allow  for  the 
standard  of  Santa  Croce  and  the  Fioretti. 
From  the  latter  nosegay  I  take  this  : 

"  It  happened  one  day  as  Brother  Peter  was  standing 
to  his  prayer,  thinking  earnestly  about  the  Passion  of 
Christ,  how  the  blessed  Mother  of  him,  and  John 
Evangelist  his  best-beloved,  and  Saint  Francis  too,  were 
painted  at  the  foot  of  the  Cross,  crucified  indeed  with 
him  through  anguish  of  the  mind,  that  there  came  upon 
him  the  longing  to  know  which  of  these  three  had  en- 
dured the  bitterest  pains  of  that  anguish,  the  Mother  who 
bore  our  Lord,  or  the  Disciple  familiar  to  his  bosom,  or 
Saint  Francis  crucified  also  even  as  he  was.  And  as  he 
stood  thinking  on  these  things,  lo  !  there  appeared  before 
him  the  Virgin  Mary  with  Saint  John  Evangelist  and  Saint 
Francis,  robed  in  splendid  apparel  and  of  glory  wonderful ; 
but  Saint  Francis'  robe  was  more  cunningly  wrought 
than  Saint  John's.  Now  Peter  stood  quite  scared  at  the 
sight ;  but  Saint  John  bade  him  take  comfort,  saying, 
*  Be  not  afraid,  dearest  brother,  for  we  are  come  hither 
to  dispel  thy  doubt.  You  are  to  know,  then,  that 
above  all  creatures  the  Mother  of  Christ  and  I  grieved 
over  the  Passion  of  our  Lord.     But  since  that  day  Saint 

37 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

Francis  has  felt  more  anguish  than  any  other.  There- 
fore, as  you  see,  he  is  in  glory  now.'  Then  Brother 
Peter  asked  him,  and  said,  '  Most  holy  Apostle  of  Christ, 
wherefore  cometh  it  that  the  vesture  of  Saint  Francis  is 
more  glorious  than  thine  ?  '  Answered  him  Saint  John, 
'  The  reason  is  this,  for  that  when  he  was  in  the  world 
he  wore  a  viler  than  ever  I  did.'  So  then  Saint  John 
gave  him  a  vestment  which  he  carried  on  his  arm,  and 
the  holy  company  vanished." 

This,  be  sure,  is  true  ;  and  I  have  its  Eng- 
lish parallel  ready  to  hand.  For  1  once 
heard  a  father  and  his  child  talking  of  the 
goodness  of  God.  *'  God, "  says  the  father, 
"gives  thee  the  milk  to  thy  porridge  "  ;  and 
the  child  thought  it  a  good  saying,  yet 
puzzled  over  it,  doubting,  as  it  afterwards 
appeared,  the  part  to  be  assigned  to  a  friend 
of  his,  the  daily  milkman.  And  so  he 
solved  it.  *'God  makes  the  milk  and  the 
milkman  brings  it,"  he  said.  The  Fioretti, 
if  you  must  needs  break  a  butterfly  on  your 
dissecting-board,  was  written,  as  1  judge, 
by  a  bare-foot  Minorite  of  forty  ;  compiled, 
that  is,  from  the  wonderings,  the  pretty 
adjustments  and  naive  disquisitions  of  any 
such  weather-worn  brown  men  as  you  may 
see  to-day  toiling  up  the  Calvary  to  their 
Convent.  And  in  this  same  story-telling 
Giotto  is  an  adept.     He  loves  to  gather  his 

38 


LITTLE  FLOWERS 

fellows  round  him  and  speak  of  Saints  and 
Archangels,  where  our  youngsters  talk  of 
fairy  godmothers  and  white  rabbits.  To 
say  this  is  not  Art,  as  the  critics  profanely 
teach,  is  monstrous.  Is  not  the  Fioretti 
literature,  or  the  Gospel  according  to  Saint 
Luke  literature.^  And  is  not  Religion  the 
highest  art  of  all,  the  large  elementary 
poetry  at  the  core  of  the  heart  of  man  } 
Just  so  was  the  craft  which  disposed  the 
rings  of  that  wonderful  ornament  round 
about  the  Bardi  chapel,  rings  of  clean  ara- 
besque wrought  in  line  upon  pale  blue  and 
pink  and  brown,  and  which  in  so  doing 
fitted  the  Franciscan  thaumaturgy  with  an 
exact  garment  tenderly  adjusted  to  every 
wave  of  its  abandonment — even  so  was 
this  a  great  art  indeed.  For  you  ask  of  an 
art  no  more  than  this,  that  it  shall  be  ade- 
quately representative  :  there  are  no  com- 
parative degrees. 

So  when  I  learn  from  the  works  of  Rus- 
kin  that  he  can  ''read  a  picture  to  you  as, 
if  Mr.  Spurgeon  knew  anything  about  art, 
Mr.  Spurgeon  w.ould  read  it, — that  is  to  say, 
from  the  plain,  common-sense  Protestant 
side  "  ;  or  when  I  learn  from  the  works  of 
Mr.  George  Moore  that  Sir  Frederick  Burton 

39 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

made  of  the  National  Gallery  a  Museum  ; 
or  when  one  complains  of  a  picture  that  it 
is  not  didactic,  and  another  that  it  holds  a 
thought,  I  make  haste  to  laugh  lest  I  should 
do  wrong^to  Tuscany,  that  looked  upon  the 
world  to  love  it  :  for  she  saw  that  it  was 
very  good. 


40 


Ill 

A   SACRIFICE   AT   PRATO 
CAn  old-fashioned  narrative)* 

THE  rim  of  the  sun  was  burning  the  hill 
tops,  and  already  the  vanguard  of  his 
strength  stemming  the  morning  m.ists, 
when  I  and  my  companion  first  trod  the 
dust  of  a  small  town  which  stood  in  our 
path.  It  still  lay  very  hard  and  white, 
however,  and  sharply  edged  to  its  girdle  of 
olives  and  mulberry  trees  drenched  in  dews, 
a  compactly  folded  town  well  fortified  by 
strong  walls  and  many  towers,  with  the 
mist  upon  it  and  softly  over  it  like  a  veil. 
For  it  lay  well  under  the  shade  of  the  hills 
awaiting  the  sun's  coming.  In  the  streets, 
though  they  were  by  no  means  asleep,  but, 
contrariwise,  busy  with  the  traffic  of  men 
and  pack-mules,  there  was  a  shrewd  bite 

*  Perhaps  I  may  be  allowed  to  explain  that  this  article 
was  written  from  the  stand-point  of  a  cultivated  Pagan 
of  the  Empire,  who  should  have  journeyed  in  Time  as 
well  as  Space. 

41 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

as  of  night  air  ;  looking  up  we  could  per- 
ceive how  faint  the  blue  of  the  sky  was, 
and  the  cloud-flaw  how  rosy  yet  with  the 
flush  of  Aurora's  beauty-sleep.  Therefore 
we  were  glad  to  get  into  the  market-place, 
filled  with  people  and  set  round  with  goodly 
brick  buildings,  and  to  feel  the  light  and 
warmth  steal  about  our  limbs. 

*Mt  would  seem  fitting,"  said  I,  ''seeing 
that  day  is  at  hand  and  already  we  enjoy 
the  first-fruits  of  his  largess,  that  we  should 
seek  some  neighbouring  shrine  where  we 
might  praise  the  gods.  For  never  yet  was 
land  that  had  not,  as  its  fairest  work,  gods  : 
and  in  a  land  so  fair  as  this  there  must 
needs  be  gods  yet  fairer,  and  shrines  to  case 
them  in."  This  I  said,  having  observed 
pious  offerings  laid  upon  the  shrines  of 
divers  gods  by  the  road.  At  the  which, 
looking  curiously,  it  seemed  to  me  that  the 
inhabitants  of  this  country  were  favoured 
above  the  common  with  devout  thoughts 
and  the  objects  of  them — gods  and  god- 
desses. You  might  not  pass  a  farm  with- 
out its  tutelary  altar  to  the  genius  of  the 
place,  some  holy  shade,  or — as  she  was 
figured  as  a  matron — some  great  land-god- 
dess, perhaps  Cybele,  or  the  Bona  Dea  ; 
42 


A  SACRIFICE  AT  PRATO 

and  pleasant  it  was  to  me  to  see  that  the 
tufts  of  common  flowers  set  before  her 
were  for  the  most  part  smiling  and  fresh 
with  the  dew  that  assured  an  early  gather- 
ing. In  the  streets  of  the  city,  moreover,  I 
had  seen  many  more  such,  slight  affairs  (it 
is  true)  of  painted  earthenware,  some  gaud- 
ily adorned  with  green  and  yellow  colour 
and  of  workmanship  as  raw,  some  painted 
flat  on  the  wall  of  a  recess  (in  which  was 
more  skill,  though  the  device  was  often 
gross  enough — to  dwell  upon  death  and 
despair),  and  some  again  of  choice  beauty, 
both  of  form  and  colour,  and  a  most  rare 
blitheness,  as  it  might  be  the  spirit  of  the 
contrivers  breaking  through  the  hard  stone. 
And  all  of  these  I  knew  to  be  gods,  but  the 
devices  upon  them  were  hard  to  be  read, 
or  approved.  There  was  a  naked  youth 
pierced  with  arrows,  wherein  the  texture 
of  smooth  flesh  accorded  not  well  with  the 
bitterness  of  his  hurt  ;  a  young  man  also, 
bearded,  of  spare  and  mournful  habit  and 
girt  with  a  rope  round  his  middle  ;  in  his 
hands  were  wounds,  as  again  of  arrows, 
and  there  was  a  rent  in  his  garment  where 
a  javelin  had  torn  a  way  into  his  side.  Such 
suffering  of  wounds  and  broken  flesh  stared 

43 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY : 

sharply  up  against  the  young  flowers  and 
grasses  which  spoke  of  healthy  wind  and 
rain  and  a  sun-kissed  earth.  Goddesses 
also  I  saw — a  virgin  of  comely  red  and 
white  visage  ;  yellow-haired  she  was, 
crowned  like  a  king's  daughter  ;  at  her  side 
a  wheel,  cruelly  spiked  on  the  outer  edge 
and  not  easily  to  be  related  to  so  heartsome 
a  maid.  But  before  them  all  (with  one 
grim  exception,  to  be  sure)  I  saw  the 
Earth-Mother  who  had  been  upon  the  farm 
and  homestead-walls,  of  the  same  high 
perfection  of  form,  and  in  raiment  stately 
and  adorned,  yet  (it  would  seem)  some- 
thing sorrowful  as  she  might  mourn  the 
loss  of  lover  or  young  child.  Now  the 
darkest  sight  I  saw  was  that  exception  be- 
fore rehearsed  ;  and  it  was  this.  A  black 
cross  stood  in  the  most  joyful  places  of  the 
city,  and  one  suffered  upon  it  to  very  death. 
Whereat  I  marvelled  greatly,  saying,  "Who 
is  the  man  thus  tormented  whom  the 
people  worship  as  a  god  ?"  And  my  com- 
panion answered, 

"  A  great  god  he  is,  if  the  country  report 
lie  not,  and  has  many  names  which  amount 
to  this,  that  he  has  freed  this  nation  from 
bondage  and  died  that  he  may  live  again, 

44 


A  SACRIFICE  AT  PRATO 

and  they  too.  And  of  the  truth  of  what 
they  say  I  cannot  speak  ;  but  I  think  he  is 
Bacchus  the  Redeemer,  who,  as  you,  Bal- 
bus,  know,  was  no  wanton  reveller  in 
lasciviousness,  but  a  very  god  of  great  be- 
nevolence and  of  wisdom  truly  dark  and 
awful.  Who  also  took  our  mortal  nature 
upon  him  and  suffered  in  the  shades  :  rising 
whence  (for  he  was  god  and  man)  like  the 
dawn  from  the  night's  bosom,  or  the  flood- 
ing of  spring  weather  from  the  iron  gates 
of  winter,  he  sped  over  land  and  sea, 
touching  earth  and  the  dwellers  upon  it. 
And  to  those  he  touched  tongues  were 
given  and  soothsaying,  and  to  many  the 
transports  of  inspiration  and  divine  mad- 
ness, as  of  poets  and  rhapsodists.  And 
tragedy  and  choral  odes  are  his,  and  the 
furious  splendour  of  dances.  But  of  the 
worship  of  Dionysus  you  know  something, 
having  been  at  Eleusis  and  beheld  the  holy 
mysteries. 

''  Now  the  god  of  this  people  has  the 
same  gift  of  tongues  and  madness  of  pos- 
session. To  him  are  also  sacred  priests 
of  the  oracle,  and  high  tragedies,  and  the 
wailing  of  music,  and  streaming  processions 
of  virgins  and  young  boys.  He  too  agonised 

45 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

and  arose  stronger  and  more  shining  than 
before,  dying,  indeed,  and  rising  at  the  very 
vernal  equinox  we  have  mentioned.  He  too 
is  worshipped  in  certain  Mysteries  whereat 
the  confession  of  inquity  and  the  cleansing 
of  hearts  come  first:  and  the  sacrifice  is 
just  that  wheaten  cake  and  fruit  of  the  vine 
whereof,  at  Eleusis,  you  have  praised  to 
me  the  simplicity  and  ethic  beauty.  And 
he  can  inspire  his  devotees  with  frenzy. 
For  I  have  heard  that  certain  men  of  the 
country,  on  a  day,  and  urged  by  his  dae- 
mon, run  naked  from  place  to  place  in 
honour  of  him,  lashing  their  bare  backs 
with  ox-goads;  and  will  fast  by  the  week 
together,  they  and  the  women  alike  ;  and 
that  pious  virgins,  under  stress  of  these 
things,  swoon  and  are  floated  betwixt  earth 
and  heaven,  and  afterwards  relate  their 
blissful  encounters  and  prophesy  strange 
matters;  receiving  also  dolorous  wounds 
(which  nevertheless  are  very  sweet  to 
them)  like  to  the  wounds  which  he  him- 
self received  unto  death;  and  all  these 
things  they  endure  because  they  are  mystic- 
ally fraught  with  the  wisdom  and  efficacy 
of  the  god.  Nay,  I  have  been  told  that  in 
the  parts  over  sea,  towards  the  North  and 
46 


A  SACRIFICE  AT  PRATO 

West,  he  is  worshipped,  just  as  at  Eleusis, 
with  pipes  and  timbrels  and  brazen  cymbals 
and  all  excess  of  music  ;  and  there  they 
dance  in  his  service  and  suffer  the  ecstasies 
of  the  Maenads  and  Corybants  in  the  Diony- 
siac  revel.  But  this  I  fmd  quaint  to  be 
believed." 

Now  when  I  had  heard  so  much,  I  was 
the  more  desirous  to  find  some  temple 
where  1  could  observe  the  cult  of  this 
wounded  god,  and  so  sought  counsel  of  my 
friend  versed  in  the  people's  learning.  To 
my  questioning  he  replied  that  it  would  be 
easy.  We  were  (said  he)  in  the  market- 
place among  the  buyers  and  chafferers  of 
fruit,  vegetables,  earthenware,  milk,  eggs, 
and  such  country  produce;  which  honest 
folk,  it  being  the  hour  of  the  morning 
sacrifice  and  the  temple  facing  us,  would 
soon  abandon  their  brisk  toil  for  religion's 
sake;  whereupon  we  too  would  go.  So  I 
looked  across  the  square  and  saw  a  very 
fair  building,  lofty  and  many  windowed,  all 
of  clean  white  marble,  banded  over  with 
bars  of  a  smooth  black  stone,  curiously 
carved,  moreover,  in  sculptured  work  of 
gods  and  men  and  of  flowers  and  fruits — 
all  cut  in  the  pure  marble.     At  one  side  was 

47 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

a  noble  rostrum,  of  the  like  fine  stone, 
whereon  young  boys  and  girls,  as  it  were 
fauns  and  dryads  and  other  woodland 
creatures,  capered  as  they  list:  and  above 
the  midmost  door  a  semi-circle  of  pale  blue 
enamel,  whereon  was  the  image  of  the 
Great  Goddess  in  gleaming  white.  She 
was  of  smiling  debonnair  countenance  and 
in  the  full  pride  of  her  blossom-time — being 
as  a  young  woman  whose  girdle  is  new 
loosed  to  the  will  of  her  lord — and  in  her 
arms  was  a  naked  child,  finely  wrought  to 
the  size  of  life.  On  either  side  of  her  a 
beautiful  youth  (in  whom  I  must  needs 
admire  the  smoothness  of  their  chins  and 
the  bravery  of  their  vesture  shining  in  the 
clear  light),  did  reverence  to  the  Goddess 
and  the  child:  and  there  were  beings, 
winged  like  birds,  with  the  faces  of  strong 
boys,  but  no  bodies  at  all  that  I  could  see, 
who  flew  above  them  all.  This  was  brave 
work,  very  wonderful  to  me  in  a  people 
who,  thus  excellently  inspired  and  having 
such  comely  smiling  divinities  and  so  clear 
a  vision  of  them  before  their  eyes,  could 
yet  be  curious  after  suffering  heroes  and 
stabbed  virgins  and  gods  with  mangled 
limbs.     But  we  went  into  the  temple  with 

48 


A  SACRIFICE  AT  PRATO 

the  good  people  of  the  country-side  to  the 
sound  of  bells  from  a  high  tower  hard  by. 
And  I  was  something  surprised  that  they 
brought  no  beasts  with  them  for  the  sacri- 
fice, nor  any  of  the  fruits  which  were  so 
abundant  in  the  land  ;  but  my  companion 
reminded  me  again  that  the  sacrifice  was 
ready  prepared  within,  and  was,  as  it  were, 
emblematical  of  all  fruits  and  every  sort  of 
meat,  being  that  wine  and  bread  into  which 
you  may  comprehend  all  bodily  and  (by  a 
figure)  ghostly  sustenance.  By  this  we 
were  within  the  temple,  which  I  now 
perceived  was  a  pantheon,  having  altars  to 
all  the  gods,  some  only  of  whose  shrines  I 
had  remarked  on  the  way  thither.  Dark 
and  lofty  it  was,  with  piered  arches  that 
soared  into  the  mist,  and  jewelled  windows 
painfully  worked  in  histories  and  fables  of 
old  time — all  as  far  apart  as  conceivably 
might  be  from  the  holy  places  of  my  own 
country  ;  for  whereas,  with  us,  the  level 
gaze  of  the  sun  is  never  absent,  and 
through  the  colonnades  you  would  see 
stretches  of  the  far  blue  country,  or,  per- 
chance, the  shimmer  of  the  restless  sea, 
here  no  light  of  day  could  penetrate,  and 
all  the  senses  might  apprehend  must  be  of 

49 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

solemn  darkness,  longing  thoughts  to  cleave 
it,  and,  afar  off  and  dim,  some  flutter  of 
even  light  as  of  blest  abodes.  A  strange 
people  !  to  despise  the  sure  and  fair,  for  the 
taunting  shadows  of  desire.  But,  growing 
more  familiar  in  the  middle  of  newness  and 
the  awe  that  comes  of  it,  I  was  again 
amazed  at  the  number  of  the  gods,  their 
nature  and  sort.  I  saw  again  the  arrow- 
stricken  youth,  whom  we  call  Asclepius 
(but  never  knew  thus  tormented — as  with 
his  father's  arrows  !)  and  again  the  Maid  of 
the  Wheel,  Fortune  as  1  suppose:  but  with 
us  the  wheel  is  not  so  manifestly  bitter. 
Then  also  the  wounded  hero,  cowled  and 
corded,  ragged  exceedingly,  the  like  of 
whom  we  have  not,  unless  it  be  some 
stripling  loved  by  an  immortal  and  wounded 
to  death  by  grudging  Fate,  as  Atys  or 
Adonis.  And  if,  indeed,  this  were  one  of 
them,  the  image-maker  did  surely  err  in 
making  him  of  so  vile  a  presence — a  thing 
against  all  likelihood  that  the  gods,  being 
themselves  of  super-excellent  shapeliness, 
should  stoop  to  anything  of  less  favour. 
Yet  he  was  of  singular  sweetness  in  his 
pains,  and  high  fortitude :  and  he  was 
much  loved  of  the  people,  as  I  afterwards 

50 


A  SACRIFICE  AT  PRATO 

learned.  And  one  was  a  young  knight, 
winged  and  witli  a  sword  in  his  hand  ;  at 
his  feet  a  grievous  worm  of  many  folds. 
This  I  must  take  for  Perseus  but  that  his 
radiancy  did  rather  point  him  for  Phoebus, 
the  lord  of  days  and  the  red  sun.  But  in 
the  centre  of  the  whole  temple  was  an 
altar,  high  and  broad,  fenced  about  with 
steps  and  a  rail,  which  I  took  to  be  made 
unto  the  god  of  gods  or  perhaps  the  king 
of  that  country,  until  I  saw  the  black  cross 
and  the  Agonist  hanging  from  it  as  one 
dead.  Then  I  knew  that  the  chief  god  of 
this  people  was  Dionysus  the  Redeemer,  if 
it  were  really  he.  But  I  had  reason  to  alter 
my  opinion  on  that  matter  as  you  shall 
hear. 

By  this  the  temple  was  filled  with  the 
country  folk  who  flocked  in  with  the  very 
reek  of  their  toil  upon  them  and  hardly  so 
much  as  their  implements  and  marketable 
wares  left  behind.  They  were  of  all  ages 
and  conditions,  both  youths  and  maids, 
arrowy,  tall,  and  open-eyed;  and  aged 
ones  there  were,  bowed  by  labour  and 
seamed  with  the  stress  of  weather  or  the 
assaults  of  unstaying  Fate  :  whereof,  for 
the  most  part,  the  women  sat  down  against 

51 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

the  wall  and  plied  dextrously  their  fans  ; 
but  the  men  stood  leaning  against  the 
pillars  which  held  the  timbers  of  the  roof. 
And  they  conversed  easily  together,  and 
some  were  merry,  and  others,  as  1  could 
perceive,  beset  with  affairs  of  government 
or  business — for  they  talked  more  vehe- 
mently of  these  matters  than  of  others,  as 
men  will,  even  beneath  the  very  eyelids  of 
the  god.  And  so  I  could  understand  that 
this  sacrifice  was  not  the  yearly  celebrating 
of  high  mysteries,  but  the  common  piety 
of  every  day  with  which  it  is  rather  seemly 
than  essential  we  should  begin  our  labour- 
ing. There  were,  indeed,  signs  in  the 
apparelling  of  the  temple  that  more  solemn 
festivals  were  sometimes  held,  as  the  de- 
livery of  oracles,  the  calculation  of  auspices 
and  such  like  :  that,  at  least,  I  took  to  be 
the  intention  of  small  recesses  along  the 
walls,  that,  through  a  grating  of  fine  brass, 
a  priest  of  the  sanctuary  uttered  the  wisdom 
of  the  god  in  sentences  which  the  meaner 
sort  should  fit  with  what  ease  they  might 
to  their  circumstances.  For,  I  suppose,  it  is 
still  found  good  that  the  dark  saying  of  the 
Oracle  should  be  illumined  by  the  subtlety 
of  the  initiate  and  not  by  the  necessities 

52 


Madonna  and  Child 


From  the  group  by  Andrea  della  Robbia  in  the  Cathedral, 
Prato 


A  SACRIFICE  AT  PRATO 

of  the  simple.  And  while  I  was  thus 
musing  I  found  the  ministrants  in  shining 
white  about  the  great  altar,  busied  with  the 
preparation  for  the  rite,  lighting  the  torches 
(very  inconsiderable  for  so  large  a  building, 
but,  mayhap,  proportionate  to  the  con- 
dition of  the  people)  :  and  they  placed  a 
great  book  upon  the  altar,  and  bowed 
themselves  ere  they  left.  And  soon  after- 
wards, to  the  ringing  of  a  bell,  came  the 
priest's  boy  carrying  the  offering  of  the 
altar,  and  the  priest  himself  in  stiff  garments 
of  white  and  yellow. 

Now,  for  the  sacrifice,  1  could  not  well 
understand  it,  save  that  it  was  very  shortly 
done  and  with  a  light  heart  accepted  by  the 
people,  who  (I  thought)  held  it  as  of  the 
number  of  those  services  whose  bare  per- 
formance is  efficacious  and  wholesome — on 
account,  partly  of  reverent  antiquity  and 
long  usage,  and  partly  as  having  some 
hidden  virtue  best  known  to  the  god  in 
whose  honour  it  is  done.  For  in  my  own 
country,  I  know  well,  there  were  many 
such  rites,  whose  commission  edified  the 
people  more  than  their  omission  would 
have  dishonoured  the  god :  wise  men,  there- 
fore  (as   priests    and   philosophers),    who 

53 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

would  live  in  peace,  bow  their  bodies  by 
rule,  knowing  surely  that  their  souls  may 
be  bolt  upright  notwithstanding.  So  here 
were  many  solemn  acts  which,  doubtless, 
once  had  some  now  unfathomable  design 
and  purport,  diligently  rehearsed,  while  the 
worshippers  gazed  about  with  dull  uncon- 
cern, or,  being  young,  cast  eyes  of  longing 
upon  the  country  wenches  set  laughing  and 
rosy  by  the  wall,  or,  old,  nursed  their  in- 
firmities. And,  on  a  sudden,  a  bell  rang; 
and  again  rang;  and  the  packed  body  of 
men  and  women  fell  upon  their  faces,  and 
so  remained  in  a  horrific  silence  for  a  space 
where  a  man  might  count  a  score.  There- 
after another  bell,  as  of  release.  So  the  as- 
sembly rose  to  their  feet  and,  as  1  saw, 
swept  from  their  foreheads  and  breasts  the 
dust  of  the  temple  floor.  But  as  soon  as  it 
was  over,  a  very  old  priest  came  through 
the  press  and  offered  the  same  sacrifice  in  a 
little  guarded  shrine  at  the  lower  end,  amid 
many  lamps  and  wax  torches  and  glittering 
ornaments.  Here  was  more  devotion 
among  the  people,  indeed  a  great  struggling 
and  elbowing  just  so  as  to  touch  the  altar, 
or  the  steps  of  it,  or  the  priesf  s  hem,  or 
even   the  rails   which   fenced   the   shrine, 

54 


A  SACRIFICE  AT  PRATO 

And  with  some  show  of  good  reason  was 
this  hubbub,  as  I  learned.  For  here  was  in- 
deed treasured  the  Girdle  of  Venus  (this 
being  her  very  sanctuary)  and  as  much  de-  ^ 
sired  as  ever  it  was  by  women  great  with 
child  or  wanting  to  conceive.  And  I  looked 
very  curiously  upon  it,  but  the  Girdle  I 
could  never  see;  only  there  was  a  painted 
image  over  the  altar  of  the  great  queen- 
mother,  Venus  Genetrix  herself,  depicted  as 
a  broad-browed,  placid  matron  giving  of 
the  fruits  of  her  bounteous  breasts  to  a  male 
child.  Then  1  knew  that  this  was  that  same 
Goddess  who  stood  over  the  outer  door  of 
the  place,  and  was  well  pleased  to  find  that 
the  people,  howsoever  ignorantly,  adored 
the  power  that  enwombs  the  world, — • 
Venus,  the  life-bringer  and  quickener  of 
things  that  breathe, — and  could,  in  this 
matter,  touch  hearts  with  the  wise.  So  with  ^ 
this  thought,  that  truly  God  was  one  and 
men  divers,  1  came  out  of  the  temple  well 
pleased,intothe  level  light  of  the  day's  beam. 
In  the  tavern  doorway,  under  a  bush  of 
green  ilex,  we  sat  down  in  company  to  eat 
bread  and  peaches  sopped  in  the  wine  of 
the  country,  and  talked  very  briskly  of  all 
the  things  we  had  seen  and  heard.     And 

55 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

soon  into  the  current  of  our  discourse  was 
drawn  a  dark-faced  youth,  who  had  been 
observing  us  earnestly  for  some  time  from 
under  his  hanging  brows,  and  who,  grow- 
ing mighty  curious  (as  I  find  the  way  of 
them  is),  must  know  who  and  whence  we 
were  and  of  what  belief  and  condition  in 
the  world.  So  when  I  had  satisfied  him, 
"Turn  for  turn,"  said  I,  "  my  honest  friend: 
being  strangers,  as  you  have  learned,  we 
have  seen  many  things  which  touch  us 
nearly,  and  some  which  are  hard  oT  read- 
ing. But  this  very  reading  is  to  us  of  high 
concernment,  for  these  matters  relate  to  re- 
ligion, and  religion,  of  what  sort  soever  it 
may  be,  no  man  can  venture  to  despise.  For 
certain  I  am,  that,  as  a  man  hath  never  seen 
the  gods,  so  he  may  never  be  sure  that  he 
hath  ever  conceived  them,  even  darkly,  as 
in  a  mirror.  For  we  are  dwellers  in  a  cave, 
my  friend,  with  our  backs  to  the  light,  and 
may  not  tell  of  a  truth  whether  the  shadows 
that  flit  and  fade  be  indeed  gods  or  no. 
Tell  me,  therefore  (for  I  am  puzzled  by  it), 
is  the  goddess  whose  presentment  I  yet  see 
over  your  temple-porch,  that  Mother  of 
gods  and  men,  yea,  even  Mother  of  life  it- 
self, to  whom  we  also  bend  the  neck  ?  " 

56 


1^        )r^.-  V^  \'      ) 


:■      l-^/-^^- 
tP'^-%^  "^"P    - 


^. 


^5«* 


S^M^iSM 


'^^5 


:fc:--l 


\ 


PEACHES   AND   WINE 


A  SACRIFICE  AT  PRATO 

"She  is,  sir,  as  we  believe,  Mother  of 
God;  and  therefore,  God  being  author  of 
life,  Mother  of  life  and  all  things  living;" 

"It  is  as  1  had  believed,"  said  I,  "and 
you,  young  sir,  and  1,  may  bow  together  in 
that  temple  of  hers  without  offence.  For 
the  temple  is  to  her  honour  as  I  conceive  ?" 

"Why,  yes,"  he  answered,  "it  is  raised  to 
her  most  holy  name  and  to  that  of  our  Lord." 

"And  your  Lord,  who  is  this?  and 
which  altar Js  his  ?     For  there  are  many." 

*  *  The  great  altar  is  his,  and  indeed  he  is  to 
be  worshipped  in  all,"  said  the  young  man. 

"He  is  then  the  tortured  god,  whose 
semblance  hangs  upon  the  black  cross  ?  " 

"He  is." 

Then  I  begged  him  to  tell  me  why  these 
mournful  images  were  scattered  over  his 
goodly  earth,  these  maimed  gods,  this 
blood  and  weeping;  but  I  may  not  set  down 
all  that  he  told  me,  seeing  that  much  of  it 
was  dark,  and  much,  as  1  thought,  not  per- 
tinent to  the  issue.  Much  again  was  said 
with  his  hands,  which  1  cannot  interpret 
here.  Suffice  it  that  1  learned  this  concern- 
ing the  Agonist,  that  he  was  the  son  of  the 
goddess  and  greater  than  she,  though  in  a 
sense  less.     Mortal  he  was,  and  immortal, 

57 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

abject  to  look  upon,  being  indeed  accounted 
a  malefactor  and  crucified  like  a  thief;  and 
yet  a  king  of  men,  speaking  wisdom 
whereof  the  like  hath  hardly  been  heard. 
For  of  two  things  he  taught  there  would 
seem  to  be  no  bottom  to  them,  so  profound 
and  unsearchable  they  are.  And  one  of 
them  was  this, — "The  kingdom  is  within 
you  "  (or  some  such  words) ;  and  the  other 
was,  *'  Who  will  lose  his  life  shall  save  it." 
Whereof,  methinks,  the  first  comprehends 
all  the  teaching  of  the  Academy  and  the 
second  that  of  the  Porch.  So  this  man 
must  needs  have  been  a  god,  and  whether 
the  son  or  no  of  the  Soul  of  the  World, 
greater  than  she.  For  what  she  did,  as  it 
were  by  necessity  and  her  blind  inhering 
power,  he  knew.  Therefore  he  must  have 
been  Wisdom  itself.  And  thus  I  knew 
that  he  could  not  be  Dionysus  the  Saviour, 
though  he  might  have  many  of  his  attri- 
butes; nor  simply  that  son  of  Venus  whom 
Ausonius  alone  of  our  poets  saw  fastened 
to  a  cross.  So  at  last,  "I  will  tell  you," 
said  I,  "who  this  god  really  is,  as  it  seems 
to  me.  Being  of  vile  estate  and  yet  greatest 
of  all;  being  mortal  and  yet  immortal,  god 
and  man;  being  at  once   most   wise   and 

58 


A  SACRIFICE  AT  PRATO 

most  simple,  and  (as  such  his  condition 
imports)  intermediate  between  Earth  and 
Heaven,  he  must  needs  be  the  Divine  Eros, 
concerning  whom  Plato's  words  are  yet 
with  us.  So  I  can  understand  why  he  is 
so  wise,  why  he  suffers  always,  and  yet 
cannot  be  driven  by  torment  nor  persuaded 
by  sophisms  to  cease  loving.  For  the  ne- 
cessity of  love  is  to  crave  ever;  and  he  is 
Love  himself.  Wherefore  I  am  very  sure 
he  can  lead  men,  if  they  will,  from  the  fair 
things  of  the  world  to  those  infinitely  fairer 
things  in  themselves  whereby  what  we  now 
have  are  so  very  fair  to  see.  And  he  may 
well  be  son  of  this  goddess  and  nourished 
by  her  milk;  for  it  behoves  us  that  a  god 
should  stand  between  Earth  and  Heaven 
and  be  compact  of  the  elements  of  either, 
so  that  he  should  condescend  the  wisdom 
of  his  head  to  instruct  the  clemency  of  his 
heart.  And  we  know,  you  and  I,  that  the 
gods  are  but  attributes  of  God,  whose  in-^ 
tellect  (as  I  say)  may  well  be  in  Heaven,  but 
his  heart  is  in  the  Earth,  and  is  the  core  of 
it.  For  so  we  say  of  the  poet  that  his 
heart  is  ever  in  his  fair  work." 

Thus  we  took  our  wine  and  were  well 
content  to  sit  in  the  sunshine. 

59 


IV 

OF   POETS   AND   NEEDLEWORK 

THE  man  of  our  time  to  class  poetry  as  a 
thing  very  pleasant  and  useful  shall 
hardly  be  found.  At  most  the  saying  will 
suffer  reprint  as  a  quaintness,  a  freak,  or  a 
paradox  ;  and  so  it  has  proved.  From 
Prato,  dusty  little  city  of  mid-Tuscany,  and 
with  the  impress  of  its  Reale  Orfanotrofio 
(nourisher,  it  would  thus  appear,  of  more 
Humanities  than  one),  comes  an  "  Opera 
Nova,nella  quale  si contengouo  belltssime  his- 
torie,  contrasti,  lamenii  e  frottole,  con  al- 
cune  canioni  a  hallo,  strambotti,  geloghe, 
farse,  capitoli  e  ha^ellette  di  piu  eccellenti 
autori.  Aggiimtevi  assai  tramiitationi,  vil- 
lanelle  alia  napolitana,  sonetti  alia  berga- 
masca  e  mariaii  alia  povana,  indovinelli, 
ritoboli  e passer otti  " ;  cosa,  this  legend  goes 
on  to  say,  moltopiacevole  ed  utile.  This  is,  no 
doubt,  rococo,  and  at  best  a  pitiful,  catch- 
farthing  bit  of  ancientry  :  yet  it  looks  back 
to  a  time  when  it  was  indeed  the  fact  that 
no  choice  work  could  be  but  useful,  and 
60 


OF  POETS  AND  NEEDLEWORK 

when  eyes  and  ears,  as  conduits  to  the 
soul,  had  that  full  of  consideration  we  re- 
serve for  mouth  and  nose,  purveyors  to  the 
belly. 

Vasari,  Giorgio,  he  too,  bourgeois  though 
he  were,  and  in  so  far  the  best  of  testi- 
mony, knew  it  when  he  found  Luca's  blue 
and  white  to  be  "  molto  utile  per  la  state." 
We  should  say  that  of  a  white  umbrella  or 
suit  of  flannels  ;  why  of  earthenware  or  an 
adroit  strambotto  ?  That  marks  the  cleft, 
the  incurable  gulf  of  difference,  between  a 
people  like  the  Tuscans  with  art  in  their 
marrow,  and  our  present  selves  with  our 
touching  reliance  upon  a  most  unseemly 
hunger  after  facts.  1  suppose  I  should  be 
stretching  a  point  if  1  said  that  Samson 
Agonistes  was  cosa  molto  piacevole  ed  utile. 
And  yet  I  name  there  a  great  poem  and  a 
weighty,  whence  the  general  public  suck, 
or  claim  to  suck,  no  small  advantage.  Is  it 
more  useful  to  them  than  Bradshaw  ?  h 
doubt.  But  here,  in  this  Opera  Nova  so 
furthered,  are  sixty-three  little  snatches  of 
Luigi  Pulci's,  eight  lines  to  the  stave,  about 
the  idlest  of  make-believe  love  affairs,  full 
of  such  Petrarchisms  as  "Gl'  occhi  tuoi 
belli  son  li  crudel  dardi,"  or 

6i 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

"^Tu  m'ai  trafitto  il  cor  !  donde  io  moro, 
Se  tu,  iddea,  non  mi  dai  aiutoro," — 

the  merest  commonplaces  of  gallantry  : 
called  on  what  account  by  their  contrivers 
molto  utile  ? 

I  have  urged  in  my  Second  Essay  that  the 
Tuscans  were  inveterate  weavers  of  fancy, 
choosing  what  came  easiest  to  hand  to 
weave  withal.  I  dared  to  see  such  airy 
spinning  in  that  Spanish  Chapel  from  which 
Mr.  Ruskin  has  nearly  frightened  the  lovers 
of  Art  ;  I  said  that  the  Summa  was  to  the 
painters  there  as  good  vantage-ground  as 
any  novel  of  Sacchetti's.  I  now  say  that 
Luigi  Pulci  and  his  kindred  so  treated  the 
love-lore  which  was  solemn  mystery  to 
Guinicelli  and  Lapo  and  Fazio,  or  the  young 
Dante  shuddering  before  his  lord  of  terrible 
aspect.  1  would  add  Petrarch's  name  to 
this  honourable  roll  if  1  believed  it  fitting 
such  a  niche  ;  but  I  find  him  the  greatest 
equivocator  of  them  all,  and  owe  him  a 
grudge  for  making  a  fifteenth-century  Dante 
impossible.  It  is  true,  had  there  been  such 
a  poet  we  should  never  have  had  our  Mil- 
ton ;  but  that  may  not  serve  the  Swan  of 
Vaucluse  as  justification  for  being  miserable 
before  a  looking-glass,  that  he  starved  his 
62 


OF  POETS  AND  NEEDLEWORK 

grandsons  to  serve  ours.  Take  him  then 
as  a  poser  :  give  him,  for  the  argument's 
sake,  Boccace  to  his  company,  Cino  ;  give 
him  our  Pulci,  give  him  Ariosto,  give  him 
Lorenzo,  Politian  ;  give  him  Tasso  for  aught 
I  care  ;  you  have  no  one  left  but  the  sugar- 
cured  Guarino.  Dante  stands  alone  upon 
the  skyey  peaks  of  his  great  argument, 
steadied  there  and  holding  his  breath,  as 
for  the  hush  that  precedes  weighty  endeav- 
our ;  and  Bojardo  (no  Tuscan  by  birth) 
stands  squarely  to  the  plains,  holding  out 
one  hand  to  Rabelais  over-Alps  and  another 
to  Boccace  grinning  in  his  grave.  The  fel- 
low is  such  a  sturdy  pagan  we  must  e'en 
forgive  him  some  of  his  quirks.  Italian 
poesy,  poor  lady,  stript  to  the  smock,  can 
still  look  honestly  out  if  she  have  but  two 
such  vestments  whole  and  unclouted  as  the 
Commedia  and  the  Orlando.  Let  us  look 
at  some  of  her  spoiled  bravery.  Take  up^ 
my  Opera  Nova  and  pick  over  Pulci  in  his 
lightest  mood.  I  am  minded  to  try  my 
hand  for  your  amusement. 

"  Let  him  rejoice  who  can  ;  for  me,  I  'd  grieve. 
Peace  be  with  all  ;  for  me  yet  shall  be  war. 
Let  him  that  hugs  delight,  hug  on,  and  leave 
To  me  sweet  pain,  lest  day  my  night  shall  mar. 

63 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

I  am  struck  hard  ;  the  world,  you  may  believe, 
Laughs  out ; — rejoice,  my  world  !  I  '11  pet  my  scar. 
Rogue  love,  that  puttest  me  to  such  a  pass, 
They  cry  thee,  '  It  is  well  ! '  1  sing,  *  Alas  !  '  " 

Fers  de  societe?  No  ;  too  rhetorical  : 
your  antithesis  gives  headaches  to  fine  la- 
dies. Euphuist  ?  Not  in  the  applied  sense  : 
read  Shakespere's  sonnets  in  that  manner  ; 
or,  if  you  object  that  Shakespere  is  too 
high  for  such  comparisons,  read  Drum- 
mond  of  Hawthornden.  Poetry,  which  has 
a  soul,  we  cannot  call  it.  Verse  it  assur- 
edly is,  and  of  the  most  excellent.  Just  re- 
ceive a  quatrain  of  the  pure  spring  and 
judge  for  yourself  : 

"  Chi  gode  goda,  che  pur  io  stento  ; 
Chi  e  in  pace  si  sia,  ch'io  son  in  guerra  ; 
Chi  ha  diletto  I'habbi,  ch'io  ho  tormento  ; 
Chi  vivelieto,  in  me  dolor  afferra." 

Balance  is  there.  Vocalisation,  adjust- 
ment of  sound,  discriminate  use  of  long 
syllables  and  short,  of  subjunctive  and  in- 
dicative moods.*  Unpremeditated  art  it  is 
not  :  indeed  it  is  craft  rather  than  art  ;  for 

*  More  than  that  :  the  piece  is  an  excellent  example 
of  the  skilful  use  of  redundant  syllables.  It  is  certain 
that  a  study  of  Italian  poetry  would  help  our,  too  often, 
tame  blank  verse  to  be  (however  bad  otherwise)  at  least 

64 


OF  POETS  AND  NEEDLEWORK 

Art  demands  a  larger  share  of  soul-expend- 
iture than  Puici  could  afford.  And  of  such 
is  the  delicate  ware  which  Tuscany,  no- 
thing doubting,  took  for  lavoro  molto  utile. 
For,  believe  it  or  not,  of  that  kind  were 
Delia  Robbia's  enrichments,  Ghirlandajo's 
frescos,  Raphael's  Madonnas,  and  Alberti's 
broad  marble  churches  :  of  that  kind  and 
of  no  other  ;  on  a  level  with  the  painted 
lady  smiling  out  of  a  painted  window  at 
Airolo,  whose  frozen  lips  assure  the  trav- 
erser of  the  Saint  Gothard  that  he  has  passed 
the  ridge  and  may  soon  smell  the  olives. 

Wherein,  then,  is  the  use  }  Why,  it  is 
in  the  art  of  it.  I  will  convict  you  out  of 
Alberti's  own  mouth,  or  his  biographer's, 
for  he  spake  it  truly.  '*  For  he  was  wont 
to  say,"  thus  runs  the  passage,  "that  what- 
ever might  be  accomplished  by  the  wit  of 
man  with  a  certain  choiceness,  that  indeed 
was  next  to  the  divine."  To  image  the 
divine,  you  see,  you  must  accomplish  some- 
what, scrupulously  weigh,  select,  and  re- 
fuse ;  in  short  adapt  exquisitely  your  means 

not  dull.  It  might  bring  it  nearer  to  Milton,  as  Dante 
brought  Keats.  Witness  his  revision  of  Hyperion.  If 
the  Tuscans  over-rated  the  craft  in  Poetry,  vv^e  assuredly 
under-rate  it. 

65 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

until  they  are  adequate  to  your  ends.  And. 
keeping  the  eye  steadily  on  that,  you  might 
grow  to  discard  solemn  ends,  or  moment- 
ous, altogether,  until  poetry  and  painting 
ceased  to  be  arts  at  all,  and  must  be  classed, 
at  best,  with  needlework.  So  indeed  it 
proved  in  the  case  of  poetry.  After  Politian 
(who  really  did  catch  some  echo  of  other 
times,  and  of  manners  more  primal  than  his 
own,  and  did  instil  something  of  it  in  his 
Orfeo)  no  poet  of  Italy  had  anything  seri- 
ous to  say.  I  doubt  it  even  of  Tasso, 
though  Tasso,  I  know,  has  a  vogue.  1  ex- 
cept, of  course,  Michael  Angelo,  as  I  have 
already  said  ;  and  1  except  Boccace  and 
Bojardo.  Painting  was  drawn  out  of  the 
pit  laid  privily  for  her  by  the  sheer  neces- 
sity of  an  outlet ;  and  painting,  having 
much  to  say,  became  the  representative 
Italian  art.  Poetry,  the  most  ancient  of 
them  all,  as  she  is  the  most  majestic;  the 
art  which  refuses  to  be  taught,  and  alone 
of  her  sisters  must  be  acquired  by  self- 
spenditure  (so  that  before  you  can  learn  to 
string  your  words  in  music  you  must  be 
shaken  with  a  thought  which,  to  your  tor- 
turing, you  must  spoil);  poetry,  at  once 
music    and    soothsay,    knitted    to    us    as 

66 


OF  POETS  AND  NEEDLEWORK 

touching  her  common  speech,  and  to  the 
spheres  as  touching  on  the  same  immortal 
harmonies  ;  poetry  such  as  Dante's  was, 
was  gone  from  Tuscany,  and  painting,  to 
her  own  ruining,  reigned  instead,  drawing 
in  sculpture  and  architecture  to  share  her 
kingdom  and  attributes.  Which  indeed 
they  did,  to  their  equal  detriment  and  our 
discouragement  that  read. 

When  I  want  to  see  Death  in  small- 
clothes bowing  in  the  drawing-room  I  turn 
to  my  Petrarch  and  open  at  Sonnet  cclxxxii. 
where  it  is  written  how  : 

"  It  lies  with  Death  to  take  the  beauty  of 
Laura  but  not  the  gracious  memory  of  her  ' ' ; 

As  thus  : 

"  Now  hast  thou  touch'd  thy  stretch  of  power,  O  Death  ; 
Thy  brigandage  hath  beggar'd  Love's  demesne 
And  quench'd  the  lamp  that  lit  it,  and  the  queen 
Of  all  the  flowers  snapped  with  thy  ragged  teeth. 
Hollow  and  meagre  stares  our  life  beneath 
The  querulous  moon,  robb'd  of  its  sovereign  : 
Yet  the  report  of  her,  her  deathless  mien — 
Not  thine,  O  churl  !     Not  thine,  thou  greedy  Death  ! 
They  are  with  her  in  Heaven,  the  which  her  grace, 
Like  some  brave  light,  gladdens  exceedingly 
And  shoots  chance  beams  to  this  our  dwelling-place  : 
So  art  thou  swallowed  in  her  victory. 
Yet  on  me,  beauty-whelmed  in  very  sooth. 
On  me  that  last-born  angel  shall  have  ruth." 

67 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

Look  in  vain  for  the  deep  heait-cry  that 
voiced  Dante's  passion  in  the  tremendous 
statements  of  this  : 

"  Beatrice  is  gone  up  into  high  Heaven, 
The  kingdom  where  the  angels  are  at  peace  ; 
And  lives  with  them  :  and  to  her  friends  is  dead. 
Not  by  the  frost  of  winter  was  she  driven 
Away,  like  others  ;  nor  by  summer  heats  ; 
But  through  a  perfect  gentleness,  instead. 
For  from  the  lamp  of  her  meek  lowlihead 
Such  an  exceeding  glory  went  up  hence 
That  it  woke  wonder  in  the  Eternal  Sire, 
Until  a  sweet  desire 
Entered  Him  for  that  lovely  excellence, 
So  that  He  bade  her  to  Himself  aspire  ; 
Counting  this  weary  and  most  evil  place 
Unworthy  of  a  thing  so  full  of  grace." 

(D.    G.   ROSSETTI.) 

Now  and  again  it  may  happen  that  a 
poet,  ridden  by  the  images  of  his  thought, 
can  **  state  the  facts  "  and  leave  the  rhyme 
to  chance.  The  Greeks,  to  whom  facts 
were  rarer  and  of  more  significance,  one 
supposes,  than  they  are  to  us,  did  it  habitu- 
ally. That  is  what  gives  such  irresistible 
import  to  Homer  and  to  Sophocles.  They 
knew  that  the  adjective  is  the  natural 
enen>y  of  the  verb.  The  naked  act,  the 
bare  thought,  a  sequence  of  stately-balanced 

68 


OF  POETS  AND  NEEDLEWORK 

rhythm  and  that  ensuring  harmony  of  sen- 
tences, gave  their  poetry  its  distinction. 
They  did  not  wilfully  colour  their  verse,  if 
they  did,  as  1  suppose  we  must  admit, 
their  statues.  *' Now,"  says  Sir  Thomas, 
"there is  a  musick  wherever  there  is  a  har- 
mony, order  or  proportion  ;  and  thus  far 
we  may  maintain  the  musick  of  the  spheres ; 
for  those  well-ordered  motions,  and  regular 
paces,  though  they  give  no  sound  unto  the 
ear,  yet  to  the  understanding  they  strike  a 
note  most  full  of  harmony."  After  the 
Greeks,  Dante,  who  may  have  drawn  lo 
hello  stile  from  Virgil,  but  hardly  his  great 
notes,  as  of  a  bell,  carried  on  the  tradition 
of  directness  and  naked  strength.  But 
Petrarch,  and  after  him  all  Tuscany,  dallied 
with  light  thinking,  and  beat  all  the  images 
of  Love's  treasury  into  thin  conventions. 

Pero,  what  gentlemen  they  were,  these 
*' ingegni  fiorentini,"  these  Tuscan  wits! 
What  innate  breeding  and  reticence  !  What 
punctilious  loyalty  to  the  little  observances 
of  literature,  of  wall-decoratipn,  call  it,  in 
the  most  licentiously -minded  of  them  ! 
Lorenzo  Magnifico  was  a  rake  and  could 
write  lewdly  enough,  as  we  all  know. 
Yet,  when  he  chose,  that  is,  when  Art  bade 

69 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

him,  how  unerringly  he  chose  the  right 
momentum.  His  too  was  *Ma  mente  che 
non  erra."  I  found  this  of  his  the  other 
day,  and  must  needs  close  up  my  notes 
with  it.  The  very  notion  of  it  was,  in  his 
time,  a  convention  ;  a  series  of  sonnets 
bound  together  by  an  argument  ;  a  Vita 
nova  without  its  overmastering  occasion. 
Simonetta  was  dead;  whereupon  "  tutti  i 
fiorentini  ingegni,  come  si  conviene  in  si 
pubblica  jattura,  diversamente  ed  avversa- 
mente  si  dolsono,  chi  in  versi,  chi  in  prosa." 
The  poor  dead  lady  was,  in  fact,  a  butt  for 
these  sharpshooters.     Yet  hear  Lorenzo. 

"  Died,  as  we  have  declared,  in  our  city  a  certain 
lady,  whereby  all  people  alike  in  Florence  were  moved 
to  compassion.  And  this  is  no  marvel,  seeing  that  with 
all  earthly  beauty  and  courtesy  she  was  adorned  as, 
before  her  day,  no  other  under  heaven  could  have  been. 
Among  her  other  excellent  parts,  she  had  a  carriage  so 
sweet  and  winsome  that  whosoever  should  have  any 
commerce  or  friendly  dealing  with  her,  straightway  fell 
to  believe  himself  enamoured  of  her.  Ladies  also,  and 
all  youth  of  her  degree,  not  only  suffered  no  harbourage 
to  unkindly  thought  upon  this  her  eminence  over  all  the 
rest,  nor  grudged  it  her  at  all,  but  stoutly  upheld  and 
took  pleasure  in  her  loveliness  and  gracious  bearing  ;  and 
this  so  honestly  that  you  would  have  found  it  hard  to  be 
believed  so  many  men  without  jealousy  could  have 
loved   her,  or  so  many  ladies   without  envy  give  her 

70 


OF  POETS  AND  NEEDLEWORK 

place  So,  the  more  her  life  by  its  comely  ordering  had 
endeared  her  to  mankind,  pity  also  for  her  death,  for  the 
flower  of  her  youth,  and  for  a  beauteousness  which  in 
death,  it  may  be,  showed  the  more  resplendently  than  in 
life,  did  breed  in  the  heart  the  smarting  of  great  desire. 
Therefore  she  was  carried  uncovered  on  the  bier  from  her 
dwelling  to  the  place  of  burial,  and  moved  all  men, 
thronging  there  to  see  her,  to  abundant  shedding  of 
tears.  And  in  some,  who  before  had  not  been  aware  of 
her,  after  pity  grew  great  marvel  for  that  she,  in  death, 
had  overcome  that  loveliness  which  had  seemed  insu- 
perable while  she  yet  lived.  Among  which  people, 
who  before  had  not  known  her,  there  grew  a  bitterness 
and,  as  it  were,  ground  of  reproach,  that  they  had  not 
been  acquainted  with  so  fair  a  thing  before  that  hour 
when  they  must  be  shut  off  from  it  for  ever  ;  to  know 
her  thus  and  have  perpetual  grief  of  her.  But  truly  in 
her  was  made  manifest  that  which  our  Petrarch  had 
spoken  when  he  said, 

*  Death  showed  him  lovely  in  her  lovely  face.' " 

This  is  to  write  like  a  gentleman  and  an 
artist,  with  ear  attuned  to  the  subtlest  fall 
and  cadence,  with  scrupulous  weighing  of 
words  that  their  true  outline  shall  hold 
clear  and  sharp.  It  is  intarsiatura,  skilful 
and  clean  at  the  edges.  He  goes  on  to  play 
with  his  hammered  thought,  always  as  de- 
licately and  precisely  as  before. 

"  Falling,  therefore,  such  an  one  to  death,  all  the 
wits  of  Florence,  as  is  seemly  in  so  public  a  calamity, 

71 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

lamented  severally  and  mutually,  some  in  rhyme,  some 
in  prose,  the  ruefulness  of  it  ;  and  bound  themselves 
to  exalt  her  excellence  each  after  the  contriving  of  his 
mind  :  in  which  company  I,  too,  must  needs  be  ;  1, 
too,  mingle  rhymes  with  tears.  So  I  did  in  the  sonnets 
below  rehearsed  ;  whereof  the  first  began  thus  : 

*  O  limpid  shining  star,  that  to  thy  beam.' 

"  Night  had  fallen  :  together  we  walked,  a  dear 
friend  and  I,  together  talking  of  our  common  sorrow  : 
and  so  speaking,  the  night  being  wondrous  clear,  I 
lifted  my  eyes  to  a  star  of  exceeding  brilliancy,  which 
appeared  in  the  West,  of  such  assured  splendour  as  not 
alone  to  excel  other  stars,  but  so  eagerly  to  shine  that  it 
threw  in  shadow  all  the  lights  of  heaven  about  it. 
Whereof  having  great  marvel,  1  turned  to  my  friend, 
saying  :  '  We  ought  not  to  wonder  at  this  sight,  seeing 
that  the  soul  of  that  most  gentle  lady  is  of  a  truth  either 
re-informed  in  this,  a  new  star,  or  conjoined  to  shine 
with  it.  Wherefore  there  is  no  marvel  in  such  exceeding 
brightness  ;  and  we  who  took  comfort  in  her  living 
delights,  may  even  now  be  appeased  by  her  appearance 
in  a  limpid  star.  And  if  our  vision  for  such  a  light 
is  tender  and  fragile,  we  should  beseech  her  shade,  that 
is  the  god  in  her,  to  make  us  bolder  by  withholding 
some  part  of  her  beam  that  we  may  sometimes  look 
upon  her,  nor  sear  our  eyes.  But,  to  say  sooth,  this  is 
no  overboldness  in  her,  endowed  as  she  was  with  all  the 
power  of  her  beauty,  that  she  should  strive  to  shine 
more  excellently  than  all  the  other  stars,  or  even  yet  more 
proudly  with  Phoebus  himself,  asking  of  him  his  very 
chariot,  that  she,  rather,  may  rule  our  day.  Which 
thing,  if  you  allow  it  without  presumption  in  our  star, 

72 


OF  POETS  AND  NEEDLEWORK 

how  vilely  shows  the  impertinence  of  Death  to  have  laid 
hands  upon  such  loveliness  and  authority  as  hers.'  And 
since  these  my  reasonings  seemed  of  the  stuff  proper  for 
a  sonnet,  I  took  leave  of  my  friend  and  composed  that 
one  which  follows  ;  speaking  in  it  of  the  above  men- 
tioned star." 

The  sonnet  is  in  the  right  Petrarchian 
vein,  adroit  and  shallow  as  you  please. 
With  such  a  preface  it  could  hardly  be 
otherwise  —  the  invocation  of  the  lady's 
shade,  the  twitting  of  Death  (making  his 
Mastership  jig  to  suit  their  occasions  who 
had  of  late  been  in  his  presence)  and  the 
naive  acceptance  of  all  gifts  as  "buona 
materia  a  un  sonetto."  In  the  end  he  spins 
four  to  her  memory;  then  finds  another 
lady  and  doubles  all  his  superlatives  for  her. 
For  the  star,  he  remembers,  may  have  been 
Lucifer  ;  and  Lucifer  is  but  herald  of  the 
day.  To  it  then  !  with  all  the  buona  ma- 
teria a  un  sonetto  the  dawn  can  give  you. 
Thus  flourished  poetry  in  the  Tuscan  quat- 
trocentro  ;  for  Politian  was  but  little  more 
poet  than  Lorenzo,  while  he  was  no  less 
dextrous  as  a  rhymer  and  fashioner  of  con- 
ceits. Not  serious,  but  piacevole,  with  an 
elegantia  qucedam  prope  divinum  ;  there- 
fore motto  utile.      Pen-work  in  fact,  and 

73 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

kin  to  needlework.  Because  Tuscany  saw 
choicely  -  wrought  things  pleasing,  and 
pleasant  things  useful,  we  of  to-day  can 
see  Florence  as  an  open-air  Museum.  But 
we  wrap  our  own  Poets  in  heavy  bindings 
and  let  them  lie  on  drawing-room  tables  in 
company  of  Whitaker's  Almanac  and  an 
album  of  photographs.  Well,  well  !  We 
must  teach  them  to  say^  Philistia,  be  thou 
glad  of  me,  1  suppose. 


74 


OF    BOII-S    AND   THE    IDEAL* 
(A  Colloquy  with  PeruginoJ 

*'  'T^HERE,"  said  my  Roman  escort,  as  we 
1  forded  the  Tiber  near  Torgiano, 
"the  haze  is  lifting:  behold  august 
Perugia."  I  looked  out  over  the  misty 
plain,  and  saw  the  spiked  ridge  of  a  hill, 
serried  with  towers  and  belfries  as  a  port 
with  ships'  masts;  then  the  grey  stone 
walls  and  escarpments  warm  in  the  sun  ; 
finally  a  mouth  to  the  city,  which  seemed 
to  engulph  both  the  white  road  and  the 
citizens  walking  to  and  fro  upon  it  like 
flies.  But  it  was  some  time  yet  before  I 
could  decipher  the  image  on  the  gonfalon 
streaming  in  the  breeze  above  the  Signiory. 
It  was  actually,  on  a  field  vert,  a  griffin 
rampant  sable,  langued  gules.  *'So  ho  !  " 
said  the   guide   when   I  had  described  it, 

*  This  appeared  in  the  New  Review  for  December,  1896, 
and  is  reproduced  by  leave  of  the  Publisher. 

75 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY  : 

"So  ho  !  the  Mountain  Cat  is  at  home 
again.  .  .  .  And  here  comes  scouring  one 
of  the  whelps,"  he  added  in  alarm.  A 
young  man,  black-avised,  bare-headed, 
pressing  a  lathered  horse,  bore  down  upon 
us.  He  seemed  to  gain  exultation  with 
every  new  pulse  of  his  strength:  the 
Genius  of  Brute  Force,  handsome  as  he 
was  evil.  And  yet  not  evil,  unless  a  wild 
beast  is  evil;  which  it  probably  is  not.  He 
soon  reached  us,  pulled  up  short  with  a 
clatter  of  hoofs,  and  hailed  me  in  a  raw 
dialect,  asking  what  I  did,  whence  and  who 
I  was,  whither  1  went,  what  1  would  ?  As 
he  spake — looking  at  me  with  fierce  eyes 
in  which  pride,  suspicion,  and  the  shyness 
of  youth  struggled  and  rent  each  other — he 
fooled  with  a  straight  sword,  and  seemed 
to  put  his  demands  rather  to  provoke  a 
quarrel  than  to  get  an  answer.  1  wished 
no  quarrel  with  a  boy,  so,  as  my  custom  is, 
1  answered  deliberately  that  I  travelled,  and 
from  Rome;  that  my  name  was  Hewlett, 
at  his  service;  that  1  was  going  to  Perugia; 
that  I  would  be  rid  of  him.  I  saw  him 
grow  loutish  before  my  adroit  impassivity; 
his  fencing  was  not  with  such  tools.  He 
sulked,  and  must  know  next  what  I  wanted 

76 


OF  BOILS  AND  THE  IDEAL 

at  Perugia.  I  told  him  I  had  business  with 
Pietro  Vannucci,  called  II  Perugino  by  those 
who  admired  him  from  a  distance;  and  he 
seemed  relieved,  withal  a  something  of  con- 
tempt for  my  person  fluttered  on  his  pretty 
lip.  At  any  rate,  he  left  fingering  his  steel 
toy.  "  Peter  the  Pious  !  "  he  scoffed. 
''Are  you  of  his  litter.^  Pots  and  Pans.^ 
Off  with  you;  you'll  find  him  hoarding  his 
money  or  his  wife.  To  the  wife  you  may 
send  these  from  Semonetto.  Whereat  my 
young  gentleman  fell  to  kissing  his  hand  in 
the  air.  I  rose  in  my  stirrups  and  bowed 
elaborately,  and,  taking  off  my  hat  in  the 
act,  put  him  to  some  shame,  for  he  was 
without  that  equipment.  He  pulled  a  wry 
face  at  me,  like  any  schoolboy,  and  can- 
tered off  on  his  spent  horse,  arms  akimbo, 
and  his  irons  rattling  about  him.  My  guide 
marked  a  furtive  cross  on  his  breast  and 
vowed,  I  am  pretty  sure,  a  score  candles  to 
Santa  Maria  in  Cosmedin  if  ever  he  reached 
home.  "God  is  good,"  he  said,  **Godis 
very  good.     That  was  Simon  Baglione." 

**He  seemed  a  very  unlicked  cub,"  was 
all  my  reply.  So  we  climbed  the  dusty 
steep,  winding  twice  or  thrice  round  about 
the  hill  in  a  brown  plain  set  with  stubbed 

77 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

trees,  and  entered  the  armed  city  by  the 
Porta  Eburnea.  Inside  the  walls,  thread- 
ing our  way  up  a  spiral  lane  among  bullock- 
carts,  cloaked  cavaliers,  monks,  fair-haired 
girls  carrying  pitchers  and  baskets,  bullies, 
bravoes,  and  well-to-do  burgesses,  we 
passed  from  one  ambush  to  another,  by 
dark  gullies,  stinking  traps,  and  twisted 
stairways,  to  the  Via  Deliziosa,  without 
ever  a  hint  of  the  broad  sunshine  or  whiff 
of  the  balmy  air  which  we  had  left  outside 
on  the  plain. 

In  a  little  mildewed  court,  where  one 
patch  of  light  did  indeed  slope  upon  a 
lemon-tree  loaded  with  fruit  and  flowers, 
I  found  my  man  in  a  droll  pass  with  his 
young  wife.  He  was,  in  fact,  tiring  her 
hair  in  the  open  :  nothing  more  ;  never- 
theless, there  was  that  air  of  mystery  in 
the  performance  which  made  me  at  once 
squeamish  of  going  farther,  and  afraid  to 
withdraw.  I  stood,  therefore,  in  confusion 
while  the  sport  went  on.  It  was  of  his 
seeking  I  could  see,  for  the  poor  girl  looked 
shamefaced  and  weary  enough.  She  was 
a  winsome  child  (no  more),  broad  in  the 
brows,  full  in  the  eye,  yellow-haired,  like 
most  of  the  women  in  this  place,  with  a 

78 


OF  BOILS  AND  THE  IDEAL 

fine-shaped  mouth,  rather  voluptuously 
underlipped  ;  and,  as  I  then  saw  her,  sitting 
in  a  carven  chair  with  her  hands  at  a  listless 
droop  over  the  arms  of  it.  Her  hair,  which 
was  loose  about  her  and  of  great  length 
and  softness,  lay  at  the  mercy  of  her 
master.  He,  a  short,  pursy  man,  well  over 
middle  age — "  past  the  Grand  Climacteric," 
as  Bulwer  Lytton  used  to  say — red  and 
anxiously  lined,  stood  behind  her,  barber 
fashion,  and  ran  her  hair  through  his  fingers, 
all  the  while  talking  to  himself  very  fast. 
His  eyes  were  half- shut:  he  seemed 
ravished  by  the  sight  of  so  much  gold 
(if  common  reports  belie  him  not)  or  the 
feel  of  so  much  silk  (the  likelier  opinion),  I 
know  not  which.  Assuredly  so  odd  a 
beginning  to  my  adventure,  a  hardier  man 
would  have  stumbled  ! 

The  sport  went  on.  The  girl,  as  I  con- 
sidered her,  was  of  slight,  almost  mean 
figure  ;  her  good  looks,  which  as  yet  lay 
rather  in  promise,  resolved  themselves  into 
a  small  compass,  for  they  ended  at  her 
shoulders.  Below  them  she  was  slender 
to  stooping,  and  with  no  shape  to  speak 
of.  Allow  her  a  fine  little  head,  the  timid 
freshness  natural  to  her  age,  a  blush-rose 

79 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY; 

skin,  slim  neck,  and  that  glorious  weiglit 
of  hair :  there  is  Perugino's  wife  !  Add 
that  she  was  vested  in  a  milky  green  robe 
which  was  cut  square  and  low  at  the  neck 
and  fitted  her  close,  and  1  have  no  more  to 
say  on  her  score  than  she  had  on  any.  As  for 
the  Maestro  himself,  I  got  to  know  him 
better.  On  mere  sight  1  could  guess  some- 
thing of  him.  A  master  evidently,  unhappy 
when  not  ordering  something  ;  fidgety  by 
the  same  token  ;  yet  a  fellow  of  humours, 
and  fertile  of  inventions  whereon  to  feed 
them.  The  more  I  considered  him  the 
more  subtle  ministry  to  his  pleasures  did 
I  find  this  morning's  work  to  be.  A  man, 
finally,  happiest  in  dreams.  1  looked  at 
him  now  in  that  vein.  In  and  out,  elbow- 
deep  sometimes,  went  his  hands  and  arms, 
plunging,  swimming  in  that  luxurious 
mesh  of  hair.  He  sprayed  it  out  in  a 
shower  for  Danae  ;  he  clutched  it  hard  and 
drew  it  into  thick  burnished  ropes  of  fine 
gold.  Anon,  as  the  whim  caught  him, 
he  would  pile  it  up  and  hedge  it  with 
great  silver  pins,  fanshape,  such  as  coun- 
try girls  use,  till  it  took  the  semblance, 
now  of  a  tower,  now  of  a  wheel,  now  of 
some  winged  beast — sphinx  or  basilisk — 

8o 


OF  BOILS  AND  THE  IDEAL 

couching  on  the  girl's  head.  Then,  stepping 
back  a  little,  he  would  clasp  his  hands  over 
his  eyes,  and  with  head  in  air  sing  some 
snatch  of  triumph,  or  laugh  aloud  for  the 
very  wildness  of  his  power  ;  and  so  the 
game  went  on,  that  seemed  a  feast  of 
delight  to  the  man — a  feast  ?  an  orgie  of 
sense.  But  the  woman  might  have  been 
cut  in  stone.  Had  she  not  breathed,  or 
had  not  her  fingers  faintly  stirred  now  and 
again,  you  would  have  sworn  her  a  wax 
doll. 

I  know  not  how  long  the  two  might  have 
stayed  at  their  affairs,  for  here  I  grew 
wearied  and,  coughing  discreetly,  slid  my 
foot  on  the  flags.  The  man  looked  up, 
stopped  his  play  at  once  ;  the  spell  was 
broken.  The  girl,  I  noticed,  stirred  not  at 
all,  but  sat  on  as  she  was,  with  her  hair  about 
her  clasping  her  shoulders  and  flooding  her 
.with  gold.  But  Master  Peter  was  a  little 
disconcerted,  1  am  pretty  sure;  certainly  he 
was  redder  than  usual  about  the  gills  and 
gullet.  He  cleared  his  throat  once  or  twice 
with  an  attempt  at  pomposity  which  he 
vainly  tried  to  sustain  as  he  came  out  to 
meet  me.  When  I  handed  him  the  Pro- 
thonotary's  letter,  and  he  saw  the  broad 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

seal,  he  bowed  quite  low;  the  letter  read, 
he  took  me  by  the  hand  and  led  me  to  the 
loggia  of  his  house.  We  had  to  pass  Madam 
on  the  way  thither;  but  by  this  Master 
Peter  carried  off  the  affair  as  coolly  as  you 
choose.  **Imola,  child,"  he  said  as  we 
passed,  "I  have  company.  Put  up  thy 
hair  and  fetch  me  out  a  fiaschone  of  Orvieto 
— that  of  the  year  before  last.  Be  sure 
thou  makest  no  mistake;  and  break  no  bot- 
tles, girl,  for  the  wine  is  good.  And  hard 
enough  to  come  by,"  he  added  with  a  sigh. 
The  girl  obeyed.  Without  raising  her  eyes 
she  rose;  without  raising  them  she  put  her 
hands  to  her  head  and  deftly  braided  and 
coiled  her  hair  into  a  single  twist;  still  look- 
ing down  to  earth  she  passed  into  the  house. 
Pietro  began  to  talk  briskly  enough  so 
soon  as  we  were  set.  The  air  was  mild 
for  mid-March ;  between  the  ridged  tiles  of 
the  cortile,  which  ran  up  to  a  great  height, 
I  .could  see  a  square  of  pale  blue  sky; 
gnats  were  busy  in  the  beam  of  dusty  light 
which  slanted  across  the  shade;  1  heard 
the  bees  about  the  lemon-bush  droning  of 
a  quiet  and  opulent  summer  hovering  near- 
by. It  was  a  very  peaceful  and  well-dis- 
posed world  just  then.  Pietro,  much  at 
82 


OF  BOILS  AND  THE  IDEAL 

his  ease,  was  apt  to  take  life  as  he  found 
it — nor  do  I  wonder. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "the  work  goes;  the 
work  goes.  I  have  much  to  do;  you  may 
call  me  just  now  quite  a  man  of  affairs. 
This  very  morning,  now,  I  received  a  little 
deputation  from  Citta  di  Castello — quite  a 
company  !  The  Prior,  the  Sub-Prior,  two 
Vicars-Choral,  two  Wardens  of  Guilds,  and 
other  gentlemen,  craving  a  piece  by  my 
own  hand  for  the  altar  of  Saint  Roch.  I 
thank  our  Lord  1  can  pick  and  choose  in 
these  days.  1  told  them  I  would  think  of 
it,  whereat  they  seemed  to  know  relief,  but 
1  added.  How  did  they  wish  the  boil  treated, 
on  the  Saint's  left  thigh  ?  For  1  told  them, 
and  I  was  very  firm,  that  though  Holy 
Church  might  aver  the  boil  to  have  been  a 
grievous  boil,  a  boil  indeed,  yet  my  art 
could  have  little  to  say  to  boils,  as  boils. 
The  boil  must  be  a  great  boil,  and  a  red, 
said  they;  for  the  populace  love  best  what 
they  know  best,  and  cannot  worship,  as 
you  might  say,  with  maimed  rites.  More- 
over, Poggibonsi  had  a  Saint  Roch  done  by 
that  luxurious  Sienese  Bazzi  (a  man  of  scan- 
dalous living,  as  i  daresay  you  know), 
where  the  boil  was  fiery  to  behold  and  as 

83 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

big  as  a  man's  ankle-bone.  This  was  a 
cause  of  new  great  devotion  among  the 
impious  by  reason  of  its  plain  relationship 
to  our  frail  flesh.  Citta  was  a  poor  city;  in 
fine,  there  must  be  a  handsome  boil.  I 
said,  Let  me  refine  upon  the  boil,  and  Saint 
Roch  is  yours,  with  Madonna,  in  addition, 
caught  up  in  clouds  of  pure  light,  and  two 
fiddling  angels,  one  at  either  hand.  Finally, 
with  the  petition  that  Madonna  should  be 
rarely  adorned  with  pearls  Flemish-fashion, 
they  let  me  have  my  way  upon  the  boil. 
So  the  work  goes  on  !  " 

"But,  good  Master  Peter,"  1  exclaimed 
here,  '"  1  could  find  some  discrepancy  in  this. 
On  the  one  hand  you  boggle  at  boils,  on  the 
other  you  suffer  pearls  to  be  thrust  upon 
you.  Why,  if  you  cleave  to  the  one,  should 
you  despise  the  other  .^  For,  for  aught  I 
see,  your  thesis  should  exclude  either." 

"And  so  it  does,"  he  said,  smiling. 
"But  for  one  man  in  Citta  that  knows  a 
pearl  there  will  be  a  hundred  who  can  judge 
of  a  boil.  My  Madonna  will  be  a  pearl- 
faced  Umbrian  maid,  and  her  other  pearls 
just  as  Flemish  as  I  choose.  But  I  hear 
our  glasses  clinking." 

I,  too,  heard  Imola's  footfall  on  the  flags, 

.      84 


OF  BOILS  AND  THE  IDEAL 

and  ventured  to  say,  ''  And  I  know  where 
your  Madonna  is,  Master  Peter."  But  he 
affected  not  to  hear. 

She  served  us  our  amber  cup  with  the 
same  persistent,  almost  sullen,  self-contin- 
ence. But,  I  thought,  I  must  see  your 
eyes,  Mistress,  for  once;  so  called  to  mind 
my  encounter  with  the  wild  young  Baglione 
of  the  morning.  Smiling  as  easily  as  I 
could,  1  accosted  her  with  *'  Madonna,  I 
am  the  bearer  of  compliments  to  you,  if 
you  choose  to  hear  them."  Then  she 
looked  me  full  for  a  second  of  time.  1  saw 
by  her  dilating  eyes,  wide  as  a  hare's 
(though  of  a  sea-grey  colour),  that  she  was 
not  always  queen  of  herself,  and  pitied  her. 
For  it  is  ill  to  think  of  broken-in  hearts,  or 
souls  set  in  bars,  and  1  could  fancy  Master 
Peter's  hand  not  so  light  upon  her  as  upon 
church-walls.  But  I  went  on,  **  Yes,  Ma- 
donna, even  as  I  rode  up  hither,  I  met  a 
young  knight-at-arms  who  wished  you  as 
well  as  you  were  fair,  and  kissed  your 
hands  as  best  he  might,  considering  the 
distance,  before  he  rode  off."  Imola  blushed, 
but  said  nothing. 

"Who  was  this  youth,  sir?"  asked 
Master  Peter,  in  a  hurry. 

85 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

* '  It  was  plainly  some  young  noble  of  your 
State,"  said  I,  "but  for  his  name  I  know 
nothing,  for  he  told  me  nothing."  1  added 
this  quickly,  because  I  could  see  our  friend 
was  keen  enough  for  all  his  coat  of  uncon- 
cern, and  I  feared  the  whip  by  and  by  for 
Imola's  thin  shoulders.  But  I  knew  quite 
well  who  the  boy  was.  Imola  went  lightly 
away  without  any  sign  of  twitter.  I  turned 
to  Master  Peter  again. 

*'  In  this  matter  of  boils  and  pearls,"  I 
began,  "I  would  not  deny  but  you  are  in 
the  right,  and  yet  there  is  this  to  be  said. 
The  Greeks  of  whose  painting,  truly,  we 
have  next  to  nothing,  in  all  the  work  of 
theirs  known  to  us  did  what  lay  before 
them  as  well  as  ever  they  could.  They 
stayed  not  to  theorise  over  this  axiom  and 
that,  that  formula  and  this.  They  said 
rather,  You  wish  for  the  presentment  of  a 
man  with  a  boil  on  his  leg?  Well.  And 
they  produced  both  man  and  boil." 

"Why  yes,  yes,"  broke  in  my  friend, 
"that  is  plain  enough.  But  apart  from 
this,  that  you  are  talking  of  sculpture  to  me 
who  do  but  paint,  you  should  know  very 
well  that  your  Greek  copied  no  single  boil, 
no,  nor  no  probable  boil,  but,  as  it  were, 

86 


OF  BOILS  AND  THE  IDEAL 

the  summary  and  perfect  conclusion  of  all 
possible  boils." 

''To  Tithanon?  Yes;  I  admit  it.  For 
Aristotle  says  as  much." 

**  Right  so  do  I,  in  my  degree  and  by  my 
art,"  said  Perugino;  "and  without  know- 
ing anything  of  Aristotle  save  that  he  was 
wise." 

"Your  pardon,  my  brave  Vannucci,"  I 
said,  "  but  you  have  admitted  the  opposite 
of  this.  Did  you  not  hint  to  the  deputa- 
tion that  you  would  give  Saint  Roch  no 
boils  }  And  have  you  ever  let  creep  into 
your  pieces  the  semblance  of  so  much  as  a 
pimple  }  Remember,  1  know  your  Sebas- 
tian ;  and  know,  also,  II  Sodoma's,  which 
he  made  as  a  banner  for  the  Confraternity 
of  that  famous  Saint  in  Camollia." 

"  I  seek  the  essence  of  fact,"  he  replied, 
"which,  believe  me,  never  lay  in  the  dis- 
placement of  an  arrow-point:  no,  nor  in 
the  head  of  a  boil.  Bazzi  is  a  sensualist  : 
as  his  palate  grows  stale  he  whets  it  by 
stronger  meat;  thinks  to  provoke  appetite 
by  disgust;  would  draw  you  on  by  a  nasty 
inference,  as  a  dog  by  his  hankering  after 
fsecal  odours.  What  nearness  to  Art  in 
his  plumpy  boy  stuck  with  arrows  like  a 

87 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

skewered  capon  ?  Causes  nuns  to  weep, 
hey  ?  and  to  dream  dreams,  hey  ?  Nature 
would  do  that  cleanlier;  and  waxwork  more 
powerfully  !  Form,  my  good  sir,  Form  is 
your  safeguard.  Lay  hold  on  Form ;  you  are 
as  near  to  Essence  as  may  be  here  below. 
Art  works  for  the  rational  enlargement  of 
the  fancy,  not  the  titillation  of  sense.  And 
Invention  is  the  more  sacred  the  closer  it 
apes  the  scope  of  the  divine  plan.  And 
this  much,  at  least,  of  the  Grecian  work  I 
have  learned,  that  it  will  never  lick  vulgar 
shoes,  nor  fawn  to  beastly  eyes.  It  is  a 
stately  order,  a  high  pageant,  a  solemn 
gradual,  wherein  the  beholder  will  behold 
just  so  much  as  he  is  prepared,  by  litany 
and  fasting  and  long  vigil,  to  receive.  No 
more  and  no  less." 

**  Aristotle  again,"  said  I,  "with  his 
*  continual  slight  novelty.'  No  fits  and 
starts." 

"I  have  told  you  before  1  know  nothing 
of  the  man,"  said  Perugino,  vexed,  it  ap- 
peared, at  such  wounding  of  his  vanity  to 
be  new  ;  "let  me  tell  you  this.  There  are 
fellows  abroad  who  dub  me  dunce  and 
dull -head.  The  young  Buonarroti,  for- 
sooth, who  mistakes  the  large  for  the 
88 


OF  BOILS  AND  THE  IDEAL 

great,  quantity  for  quality  ;  who  in  the 
indetermined  pretends  to  see  the  mysteri- 
ous. Mystery,  quotha  !  Mystery  may  be 
in  an  astrologer's  horoscope,  in  a  diagram. 
Mystery  needs  no  puckered  virago,  nor 
bully  in  the  sulks.  There  is  mystery  in  the 
morning  calms,  mystery  in  a  girl's  melting 
mood;  mystery  in  the  irresolution  of  a 
growing  boy  full  of  dreams.  But  behold !  it 
is  there,  not  here.  If  you  see  it  not,  the 
fault  is  your  own.  It  may  be  broad  as 
day,  cut  clean  as  with  a  knife,  displayed  at 
large  before  a  brawling  world  too  busy 
lapping  or  grudging  to  heed  it.  The  many 
shall  pass  it  by  as  they  run  huddling  to  the 
dark.  Yet  the  few  shall  adore  therein  the 
excellency  of  the  mystery,  even  as  the  few 
(the  very  few)  may  discern  in  the  flake  of 
wafer-bread  the  shining  wholeness  of  the 
Divine  Nature " 

**  *  The  few  remain,  the  many  change  and 
pass,'"  I  interpolated  in  a  murmur.  But 
Perugino  never  heeded  me.     He  went  on  : 

"The  Greek,  young  sir,  took  the  fact 
and  let  it  alone  to  breed.  His  act  lay  in  the 
taking  and  setting.  Just  so  much  import 
as  it  had  borne  it  bore  still;  just  so  much 
weight  as  separation  from  its  fellows  lent 

89 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY : 

it  was  to  his  credit  who  first  cut  it  free. 
But  nowadays  glamour  suits  only  with 
serried  muscles,  frowns,  and  writhen  lips  ; 
where  darkness  is  we  shudder,  saying. 
Behold  a  great  mystery!  Let  a  painter  de- 
clare his  incompetence  to  utter,  it  shall  be 
enough  to  assure  you  he  has  walked  with 
God;  for  if  he  stammers,  look  you,  that 
testifies  he  is  overwhelmed.  Amen,  I 
would  answer.  Let  his  head  swim  and  be 
welcome;  but  let  him  not  set  to  painting 
till  he  can  stand  straight  again.  For  in  one 
thing  I  am  no  Greek,  in  that  I  cannot  hold 
drunkenness  divine."  Here  the  good  man 
stopped  for  want  of  breath  and  I  whipped  in. 

"  Your  great  Crucifixion  in  Santa  Maria 
Maddalena,"   I  began. 

*'  Look  you,  sir,"  he  took  me  up,  "  I 
know  what  you  would  be  at.  Take  that 
piece  (which  is  of  my  very  best)  or  another 
equally  good,  I  mean  the  Charge  to  Peter 
in  Pope  Sixtus  his  new  Chapel,  and  listen 
to  me.  The  first  thing  your  painter  must 
seek  to  do  is  to  fill  his  wall.  Let  there  be 
no  mistake  about  this.  He  is  at  first  no 
prophet  nor  man  of  God  ;  he  is  no  jug- 
gler nor  mountebank  who  shall  be  re- 
warded according  to  the  enormity  of  his 
90 


OF  BOILS  AND  THE  IDEAL 

grins  ;  his  calling,  maybe,  is  humbler,  for 
all  he  stands  for  is  to  wash  a  wall  so  that 
no  eye  be  set  smarting  because  of  it.  Now 
that  seems  a  very  simple  matter  ;  it  is  just 
as  simple  as  the  eye  itself — so  you  may 
judge  the  validity  of  the  arguments  against 
me,  that  a  wholesome  green  or  goodly  red 
wash  would  suffice.  It  would  suffice  in- 
different well  for  a  kennel  of  dogs.  But 
mark  this.  Although  your  painter  may 
drop  hints  for  the  soul,  let  him  not  strain 
above  his  pitch  lest  he  crack  his  larynx. 
To  his  colour  he  may  add  form  in  the 
flat  ;  but  he  cannot  escape  the  flat,  how- 
ever he  may  wriggle,  any  more  than  the 
sculptor  can  escape  the  round,  scrape  he 
never  so  wisely.  Buonarroti  will  scrape 
and  shift  ;  the  Fleming  has  scraped  and 
shifted  all  his  days  to  as  little  purpose.  His 
seed-pearls  invite  your  touch.  Touch  them, 
my  friend,  you  will  smear  your  fingers. 
*  Ne  sutor  ultra  crepidam.  Leave  miracles, 
O  painter,  to  the  Saint,  and  stick  to  your 
brush-work.  Colour  and  form  in  the  flat ; 
there  is  his  armour  to  win  the  citadel  of  a 
man's  soul." 

"They  call  you  mawkish,"   I  dared  to 
say. 

91 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

''  I  am  in  good  company,"  said  the  little 
man,  with  much  pomposity. 

'*You  say  boldly,  then,  if  I  catch  the 
chain  of  your  argument  " — thus  1  pursued 
him — ''that  you  present  (as  by  some  for- 
mula which  you  have  elaborated)  the  facts 
of  religion  in  colour  and  design  ?  For  1 
suppose  you  will  allow  that  your  Art  is 
concerned  at  least  as  much  with  religion 
as  with  the  washing  of  walls  ?  " 

"Religion  !  Religion  !  "  cried  he.  ''What 
are  you  at  ?  Concerned  with  religion  ! 
Man  alive,  it  is  concerned  with  itself  ;  it 
is  religion.  1  see  you  are  very  far  indeed 
from  the  truth,  and  as  you  have  spoken 
of  my  Crucifixion  in  Florence,  now  you 
shall  suffer  me  to  speak  of  it.  1  testify 
what  1  know,  not  that  which  1  have  not 
seen.  And  as  mine  eyes  have  never  filled 
with  blood  from  Golgotha,  so  I  do  not 
conjure  with  tools  I  have  not  learned  to 
handle.  But  1  will  tell  you  what  I  have 
seen.  The  Mass:  whereof  my  piece  is,  as 
it  were,  the  transfiguration  or  a  parable. 
For  it  grew  out  of  a  Mass  1  once  heard, 
stately-ordered,  solemnly  and  punctiliously 
served  in  a  great  church.  Mayhap,  I 
dreamed  of  it ;   we  shall  not  quarrel  over 

92 


OF  BOILS  AND  THE  IDEAL 

terms.  It  was  a  strange  Mass,  shorn  of  much 
ornament  and  circumstance,  1  thought, 
as  I  knelt  and  wondered  :  Here  are  no 
lamentations,  no  bruised  breasts,  no  out- 
poured hearts,  nor  souls  on  flames.  The 
day  for  tears  is  past,  the  fires  are  red,  not 
flaming  ;  this  is  a  day  for  steadfast  regard, 
for  service,  patience,  and  good  hope  ;  this 
is  a  day  for  Art  to  chant  what  the  soul 
hath  endured.  For  Art  is  a  fruit  sown  in 
action  and  watered  to  utterance  by  tears. 
Two  priests  only,  clothed  in  fine  linen, 
served  the  Mass  :  ornaments  of  candles, 
incense,  prostration,  genuflection,  there 
were  none.  Yet,  step  by  step,  and  with 
every  stop  pondered  reverently  ere  another 
was  laid  to  its  fellow's  foundation  ;  with 
full  knowledge  of  the  end  ere  yet  was  the 
beginning  accomplished  ;  in  every  gesture, 
every  pause,  intonation,  invocation,  stave 
of  song,  phrase  of  prayer  ;  by  painful  de- 
'grees  wrought  in  the  soul's  sweat  and 
tears,  unadorned,  cold  as  fine  stone,  yet 
•  glittering  none  the  less  like  fair  marble  set 
in  the  sun — was  that  solemn  Mass  sung 
through  in  the  bare  Church  to  the  glory  of 
God  and  His  angels,  who  must  ever  rejoice 
in  a  work  done  so  that  the  master-mind  is 

93 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

Straining  and  on  watch  over  heart  and 
voice.  And  I  said.  Calvary  is  done  and  the 
woe  of  it  turned  to  triumph.  Love  is  the 
fulfilling  of  the  Law.  Henceforth,  for  me 
Law  shall  be  the  fulfilment  of  my  Love. 

**  Therefore  I  paint  no  terrors  of  death, 
no  flesh  torn  by  iron,  no  passion  of  an 
anguish  greater  than  we  can  ever  conceive, 
no  bitter-sweet  ecstasy  of  Self  abandoned 
or  Love  inflaming  ;  but  instead,  serenity, 
a  morning  sky,  a  meek  victim.  Love  fulfill- 
ing Law.  Shorn  of  accidents,  for  the 
essence  is  enough  ;  not  passionate,  for  that 
were  as  gross  an  affront  in  face  of  such  aw- 
ful death  as  to  be  trivial.  Nothing  too  much ; 
Law  fulfilling  Love  ;  reasonable  service. 

*  *  And  because  we  are  of  the  earth  earthy, 
and  because  what  1  work  you  must  behold 
with  bodily  eyes,  I  limn  you  angels  and 
gods  in  your  own  image  ;  not  of  greater 
stature  nor  of  more  excellent  beauty  than 
many  among  you ;  not  of  finer  essence, 
maybe,  than  yourselves.  But  as  the  priests 
about  that  naked  altar,  so  stand  they,  that 
the  love  which  transfigures  them  be  ab- 
sorbed in  the  fulfilling  of  law ;  and  the  law 
they  exquisitely  follow  be  at  once  the 
pattern  and  glass  of  their  love." 

9« 


p 


The  Assumption  of  the  Vi 

Group  from  the  painting  by  Pietro  Vanni 
Perugino,  in  the  gallery  of  the  Acadei 
P'ine  Arts,  Florence 


I  meek  victu 


atfront 


LaN 

«• 

And  becaus 

an.-* 

'- ?  Whai 

wi; 

eves. 

cro: 

St.I' 

mr. 

ma 

not  ot 


OF  BOILS  AND  THE  IDEAL 

Master  Peter  drained  a  beaker  of  his 
Orvieto.  I  admired  ;  for  indeed  the  little 
man  spoke  well. 

''Now  the  Lord  be  good  to  you,  Master 
Peter,"  I  said  ;  *'  men  do  you  a  great 
wrong.  For  there  are  some  who  aver  that 
you  doubt." 

''Who  does  not  doubt.?"  replied  my 
host.  "We  doubt  whenever  we  cannot 
see." 

"  1  believe  you  are  right,"  said  I.  "  Your 
great  Saint  is,  after  all,  your  great  Seer. 
For  you,  then,  to  question  the  soul's  im- 
mortality is  but  to  admit  that  you  do  not 
yet  see  your  own  life  to  come." 

"  Leave  it  so,"  said  Perugino.  "  Let  us 
talk  reasonably." 

"Did  all  men  love  the  law  as  you  do," 
I  resumed  after  a  painful  pause — for  1  felt 
the  force  of  the  Master's  rebuke  to  my  im- 
pertinence (and  could  hope  others  will  feel 
it  also) — "  did  all  love  the  law  as  you  do, 
the  world  would  be  a  cooler  place  and 
passion  at  a  discount.  But  I  cannot  con- 
ceive Art  without  passion." 

' '  Nor  1, "  said  the  painter,  ' '  and  for  the  ex- 
cellent reason  that  there  is  no  such  thing.  But 
remember  this:  passion  is  like  the  Alpheus. 

95 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

Hedge  it  about  with  dams,  you  drive  it 
deeper.  Out  of  sight  is  not  out  of  being. 
And  the  issue  must  needs  be  the  fairer." 

•'Happy  the  passion,"  I  said,  ''which 
hath  an  issue.  There  is  passion  of  the 
vexed  sort,  where  the  tears  are  frozen  to 
ice  as  they  start.  Of  the  tortured  thus, 
remember — 

'  Lo  pianto  stesso  li  pianger  non  lascia, 
E  il  duol,  che  trova  in  su  gli  occhi  rintoppo. 
Si  volve  in  entro  a  far  crescer  I'ambascia.' " 

**You  know  our  Dante?"  said  Master 
Peter  blandly  (though  I  swear  he  knew 
what  I  was  at).  "There  may  be  such 
people  ;  doubtless  there  are  such  people. 
For  me,  I  find  a  perpetual  outlet  in  my 
art."     1  could  not  forbear  : 

**  Master  Peter,  Master  Peter,"  1  cried  out, 
"how  can  I  believe  you  when  1  know  that 
your  Madonna's  eyes  are  brimming  ;  when 
1  know  why  she  turns  them  to  a  misty 
heaven  or  an  earth  seen  blotted  by  reason 
of  tears  ?  Do  these  tears  ever  fall,  Master 
Peter  ?  or  who  freezes  them  as  they  start  ?  " 

For  I  wondered  where  his  patient  Imola 

found  her  outlet,  and  whether  young  Si- 

mone  has  shown  her  a  way.     Master  Peter 

drummed  on  the  table  and  nursed  one  fat  leg. 

96 


OF  BOILS  AND  THE  IDEAL 

Before  I  took  leave  of  the  urbane  little 
painter,  in  fact  while  I  stood  in  the  act  of 
handshaking,  I  saw  her  white  face  at  an 
upper  window,  looming  behind  rigid  bars. 
On  a  sudden  impulse  I  concluded  my  fare- 
wells rapidly  and  made  to  go.  Vannucci 
turned  back  into  the  house  and  closed  the 
door ;  but  I  stayed  in  the  cortile  pretending 
a  trouble  with  my  spurs.  Sure  enough, 
in  a  short  time  I  heard  a  light  footfall. 
Imola  stood  beside  me. 

"Wish  me  a  safe  journey,"  I  said  smil- 
ing, "and  no  more  bare-headed  cavaliers 
on  the  road."  Her  lips  hardly  moved,  so 
still  her  voice  was.  "Was  he  bare- 
headed ?  "  she  asked,  as  if  in  awe. 

"Love-locks  floating  free,"  I  answered 
her  gaily  enough.  "  Shall  I  thank  him  for 
his  courtesies  to  you.  Madonna,  if  we 
meet  ?" 

"You  will  not  meet:  he  is  gone  to 
Spello,"  she  began,  and  then  stopped, 
blushing  painfully. 

"  But  1  may  stay  in  Spello  this  night  and 
could  seek  him  out." 

She  was  mistress  of  her  lips,  and  could 
now  look  steadily  at  me.  "I  wish  him 
very  well,"  said  Imola. 

97 


VI 

THE   SOUL   OF   A    FACT 

IN  the  days  when  it  was  verging  on  a 
question  whether  a  man  could  be  at 
the  same  time  a  good  Christian  and  an 
artist,  the  chosen  subjects  of  painting  were 
significant  of  the  approaching  crisis — those 
glaring  moral  contrasts  in  history  which, 
for  want  of  a  happier  term,  we  call  dram- 
atic. Why  this  was  so,  whether  Art  took 
a  hint  from  Politics,  or  had  withdrawn  her 
more  intimate  manifestations  to  await  like- 
lier times,  is  a  question  it  were  long  to 
answer.  The  subjects,  at  any  rate,  were 
such  as  the  Greeks,  with  their  surer  in- 
stincts and  saving  grace  of  sanity  in  matters 
of  this  kind,  either  forbore  to  meddle  with 
or  treated  as  decoratively  as  they  treated 
acanthus-wreaths.  To-day  we  call  them 
"effective"  subjects;  we  find  they  pro- 
duce shocks  and  tremors  ;  we  think  it 
braces  us  to  shudder,  and  we  think  that 
Art  is  a  kind  of  emotional  pill  ;  we  meas- 
ure  it    quantitatively,    and    say    that    we 

98 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  FACT 

**know  what  we  like."  And  doubtless 
there  is  something  piquant  in  the  quivering 
produced,  for  example,  by  the  sight  of 
white  innocence  fluttering  helpless  in  a 
grey  shadow  of  lust.  So  long  as  the  Bible 
remained  a  god,  that  piquancy  was  found 
in  a  Massacre  of  the  Innocents  ;  in  our  own 
time  we  find  it  in  a  Faust  and  Gretchen,  in 
the  Dore  Gallery,  or  in  the  Royal  Academy. 
It  was  a  like  appreciation  of  the  certain 
effect  of  vivid  contrasts  as  powerful  didactic 
agents  (coupled  with,  or  drowning,  a  some- 
thing purer  and  more  devout)  which  had 
inspired  those  most  beautiful  and  distinctive 
of  all  the  symbols  of  Catholicism,  the  Ad- 
oration of  the  Kings,  the  Christ-child  cycle, 
and  which  raised  the  Holy  Child  and  Maid- 
Mother  to  their  place  above  the  mystic 
tapers  and  the  Cross.  Naturally  the  Old 
Testament, that  garner  of  grim  tales,  proved  a 
rich  mine:  David  and  Golias,  Susanna  and 
the  Elders,  the  Sacrifice  of  Isaac,  feph- 
thah's  daughter.  But  the  story  of  Judith 
did  not  come  to  be  painted  in  Tuscan  sanc- 
tuaries until  Donatello  of  Florence  had  first 
cast  her  in  bronze  at  the  prayer  of  Cosimo 
pater  patrioe.  Her  entry  was  dramatic 
enough  at  least  :  Dame  Fortune  may  well 

99 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

have  sniggered  as  she  spun  round  the  city 
on  her  ball.  Cosimo  the  patriot  and  his 
splendid  grandson  were  no  sooner  dead 
and  their  brood  sent  flying,  than  Dona- 
tello's  Judith  was  set  up  in  the  Piazza  as  a 
fit  emblem  of  rescue  from  tyranny,  with 
the   vigorous    motto,    to   make   assurance 

double,      ''EXEMPLVM   SALVTIS    PVBLIC^E   GIVES 

posvERE."  Savonarola,  who  knew  his 
Bible,  saw  here  a  keener  application  of 
Judith's  pious  sin.  A  few  years  later  that 
same  Judith  saw  him  burn.  Thus,  as  an  in- 
carnate cynicism,  she  will  pass  ;  as  a  work 
of  art  she  is  admittedly  one  of  her  great 
creator's  failures.  Her  neighbour  Perseus 
of  the  Loggia  makes  this  only  too  plain  ! 
For  Cellini  has  seized  the  right  moment  in 
a  deed  of  horror,  and  Donatello,  with  all 
his  downrightness  and  grip  of  the  fact,  has 
hit  upon  the  wrong.  It  is  fatal  to  freeze  a 
moment  of  time  into  an  eternity  of  waiting. 
His  Judith  will  never  strike  :  her  arm  is 
palsied  where  it  swings.  The  Damoclean 
sword  is  a  fine  incident  for  poetry  ;  but 
Holofernes  was  no  Damocles,  and,  if  he  had 
been,  it  were  intolerable  to  cast  his  experi- 
ence in  bronze.  Donatello  has  essayed  that 
thing  impossible  for  sculpture,  to  arrest  a 


Judith  and  Holof ernes 


From  the  group  by  Donatello  in  the  LoL:L,na  of  the  Lanzi, 
Florence 


on  her  ball.  Cpsimo  the  patriot  and  his 
splendid  grandson  were  no  sooner  dead 
rind  their  brood  sent  flying,  than  Dona- 
idlo's  JuJttk  was  set  up  in  the  Piazza  as  a 
fit  emblem  of  rescue  from  tyranny,  with 
the  vigorous    motto,   to  make  assurance 

double,     "EXEMPLVM  SALVTIS    PVBLICy€   CIVES 

posvERE."      Savonarola,    who    knew 
Bible,  saw   here,  a   keener  applicatic      , 
Judith's  pious  siru    rArfcw  years. Jater  that 
samej!Juh%Vmmrf!4hk%^^^  in. 

of  art  she  is  qi^  of 

creator's  failures.     Her  n 
f  the  Loggia  makes  thL    ....    _.  , 

;eHini  has  seized  the  right  momc 
a  deed  o  ■' .  and  Donatello,  with  all 

his  down  , ^s  and  grip  of  the  fact,  has 

hit  upon  the  wrong.     It  is  fatal  to  freeze  a 
moment  of  time  into  an  eternity  of  Wiii' 
His  Jiufith  will  never  strike  :  her  ai; 
palsied  where  it  swii  imoclean 

•  d  is  a  fine    ' 

rernes  was  r 

\-.     uu;:  iyca  in::: 

ibie  fc  ')  arrest  > 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  FACT 

moment  instead  of  denote  a  permanent  at- 
tribute. Art  is  adjectival,  is  it  not,  O  Dona- 
tello  ?  Her  business  is  to  qualify  facts,  to 
say  what  things  are,  not  to  state  them,  to 
affirm  that  they  are.  A  sculptured  Judith 
was  done  not  long  afterwards,  carved,  as 
we  shall  see,  with  a  burin  on  a  plate  ; 
and  the  man  who  so  carved  her  was  a 
painter. 

Meantime,  pari  passu,  almost,  a  painter 
who  was  a  poet  was  trying  his  hand  ;  a 
man  who  knew  his  Bible  and  his  mythology 
and  was  equally  at  home  with  either.  Per- 
haps it  is  not  extravagant  to  say  that  you 
cannot  be  an  artist  unless  you  are  at  home 
with  mythology,  unless  mythology  is  the 
swiftest  and  most  direct  expression  of  your 
being,  so  that  you  can  be  measured  by  it 
as  a  man  is  known  by  his  books,  or  a 
woman  by  her  clothes,  her  way  of  bowing, 
her  amusements,  or  her  charities.  For 
mythopoeia  is  just  this,  the  incarnating  the 
spirit  of  natural  fact  ;  and  the  generic  name 
of  that  power  is  Art.  A  kind  of  creation, 
a  clothing  of  essence  in  matter,  an  hypos- 
tatising  (if  you  will  have  it)  of  an  object  of 
intuition  within  the  folds  of  an  object  of 
sense.     Lessing  did  not  dig  so  deep  as  his 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

Greek  Voltaire  (whose  "dazzling  antithe- 
sis, "  after  all,  touches  the  root  of  the  matter), 
for  he  did  not  see  that  rhythmic  extension 
in  time  or  space,  as  the  case  may  be,  with 
all  that  that  implies — colour,  value,  propor- 
tion, all  the  convincing  incidents  of  form — 
is  simply  the  mode  of  all  arts,  the  thing 
with  which  Art's  substance  must  be  inter- 
penetrated, until  the  two  form  a  whole, 
lovely,  golden,  irresistible,  and  inevitable  as 
Nature's  pieces  are.  This  substance,  1  have 
said,  is  the  spirit  of  natural  fact.  And  so 
mythology  is  Art  at  its  simplest  and  barest 
(where  the  bodily  medium  is  neither  word, 
nor  texture  of  stone,  nor  dye),  the  parent 
art  from  which  all  the  others  were,  so  to 
speak,  begotten  by  man's  need.  Thus 
much  of  explanation,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  is 
necessary,  before  we  turn  to  our  mytho- 
poet  of  Florence,  to  see  what  he  made  out 
of  the  story  of  Judith. 

First  of  all,  though,  what  has  the  story 
of  Judith  to  do  with  mythology  ?  It  is  a 
legend,  one  of  the  finest  of  Semitic  legends; 
and  between  legend  and  myth  there  is  as 
great  a  gulf  as  between  Jew  and  Greek.  I 
believe  there  are  no  myths  proper  to  Israel 
— 1    do    not    see    how    such   magnificent 


THE    PERSEUS   OF   THE    LOQQIA 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  FACT 

egoists  could  contract  to  the  necessary  state 
of  awe — and  I  do  not  know  that  there  are  any 
legends  proper  to  Greece  which  are  divorced 
from  real  myths.  For  where  a  myth  is  the 
incarnation  of  the  spirit  of  natural  fact,  a 
legend  is  the  embellishment  of  an  historical 
event  :  a  very  different  thing.  A  natural 
fact  is  permanent  and  elemental,  an  histor- 
ical event  is  transient  and  superficial.  Take 
one  instance  out  of  a  score.  The  rainbow 
links  heaven  and  earth.  Iris  then,  to  the 
myth-making  Greek,  was  Jove's  messenger, 
intermediary  between  God  and  Man.  That 
is  to  incarnate  a  constant,  natural  fact. 
Plato  afterwards,  making  her  daughter  of 
Thaumas,  incarnated  a  fact,  psychological, 
but  none  the  less  constant,  none  the  less 
natural.  But  to  say,  as  the  legend-loving 
Jew  said,  that  Noah  floated  his  ark  over  a 
drowning  world  and  secured  for  his  poster- 
ity a  standing  covenant  with  God,  who 
then  and  once  for  all  set  his  bow  in  the 
heavens  ;  that  is  to  indicate,  somewhere, 
in  the  dim  backward  and  abysm  of  time, 
an  historical  event.  The  rainbow  is 
suffered  as  the  skirt  of  the  robe  of  Noah, 
who  was  an  ancestor  of  Israel.  So  the 
Judith  poem  may  be  a  decorated  event,  or 
103 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

it  may  be  the  barest  history  in  a  splendid 
epical  setting  :  the  point  to  remember  is 
that  it  cannot  be,  as  a  legend,  a  subject  for 
creative  art.  The  artist,  in  the  language 
of  Neo-Platonism,  is  a  demiurge  ;  he  only 
of  men  can  convert  dead  things  into  life. 
And  now  we  will  go  into  the  Uffizi. 

Mr.  Ruskin,  in  his  petulant-playful  way, 
has  touched  upon  the  feeling  of  amaze 
most  people  have  who  look  for  the  first 
time  at  Botticelli's  7//^////?  tripping  smoothly 
and  lightly  over  the  hill-country,  her  stead- 
fast maid  dogging  with  intent,  patient  eyes 
every  step  she  takes.  You  say  it  is  flippant, 
affected,  pedantic.  For  answer,  1  refer  you 
to  the  sage  himself,  who,  from  his  point  of 
view — that  painting  may  fairly  deal  with  a 
chapter  of  history — is  perfectly  right.  The 
prevailing  strain  of  the  story  is  the  strength 
of  weakness — ex  dulci  fortitudo,  to  invert 
the  old  enigma.  **  O  God,  O  my  God,  hear 
me  also,  a  widow.  Break  down  their 
stateliness  by  the  hand  of  a  woman  !  "  It 
is  the  refrain  that  runs  through  the  whole 
history  of  Israel,  that  reasonable  compla- 
cency of  a  little  people  in  their  God-fraught 
destiny.  And,  withal,  a  streak  of  savage 
spite:  that  the  audacious  oppressor  shall  be 
104 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  FACT 

done  scornfully  to  death.  There  is  the 
motive  of  Jael  and  Sisera  too.  So  "she 
smote  twice  upon  his  neck  with  all  her 
might,  and  she  took  away  his  head  from 
him,  and  tumbled  his  body  down  from  the 
bed."  Ho  !  what  a  fate  for  the  emissary 
of  the  Great  King.  Wherefore,  once  more, 
the  jubilant  paradox,  "  The  Lord  hath  smit- 
ten him  by  the  hand  of  a  woman  !  "  That 
is  it:  the  amazing,  thrilling  antithesis  in- 
sisted on  over  and  over  again  by  the  old 
Hebrew  bard.  ''  Her  sandals  ravished  his 
eyes,  her  beauty  took  his  mind  prisoner, 
and  the  fauchion  passed  through  his  neck." 
That  is  the  leit-motif:  Sandro  the  poet 
knew  it  perfectly  well  and  taught  it,  to  the 
no  small  comfort  of  Mr.  Ruskin  and  his 
men.  Giuditta,  dainty,  blue-eyed,  a  girl 
still  and  three  years  a  widow,  flits  home- 
ward through  a  spring  landscape  of  grey 
and  green  and  the  smile  of  a  milky  sky, 
being  herself  the  dominant  of  the  chord, 
with  her  bough  of  slipt  olive  and  her  jagged 
scimitar,  with  her  pretty  blue  fal-lals 
smocked  and  puffed,  and  her  yellow  curls 
floating  over  her  shoulders.  On  her  slim 
feet  are  the  sandals  that  ravished  his  eyes  ; 
all   her  maiden   bravery    is    dancing    and 

105 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

fluttering  like  harebells  in  the  wind.  Be- 
hind her  plods  the  slave-girl  folded  in  an 
orange  scarf,  bearing  that  shapeless,  name- 
less burden  of  hers,  the  head  of  the  grim  Lord 
Holofernes.  Oh,  for  that,  it  is  the  legend 
itself  !  For  look  at  the  girl's  eyes.  What 
does  their  dreamy  solemnity  mean  if  not, 
*' the  Lord  hath  smitten  him  by  the  hand 
of  a  woman  "  ?  One  other  delicate  bit  of 
symbolising  he  has  allowed  himself,  which 
I  may  not  omit.  You  are  to  see  by  whom 
this  deed  was  done  :  by  a  woman  who  has 
unsexed  herself.  Judith  is  absorbed  in  her 
awful  service;  her  robe  trails  on  the  ground 
and  clings  about  her  knees  ;  she  is  uncon- 
scious of  the  hindrance.  The  gates  of 
Bethulia  are  in  sight,  the  Chaldean  horse- 
men are  abroad,  but  she  has  no  anxiety  to 
escape.  She  is  swift  because  her  life  just 
now  courses  swiftly;  but  there  is  no  haste. 
The  maid,  you  shall  mark,  picks  up  her 
skirts  with  careful  hand,  and  steps  out  the 
more  lustily  for  it. 

So  far  Botticelli  the  poet,  and  so  far  also 
Mr.  Ruskin,  reader  of  pictures.  What  says 
Botticelli  the  painter.^  Had  he  no  instincts 
to  tell  him  that  his  art  could  have  little  to 
say  to  a  legend  ?    Or  that  a  legend  might 

io6 


Judith 

From  the  painting  by  Botticelli  in  the  Uffizi  Gallery,  Florence 


noioi 


>i  omit.     You  are  to 
!  was  dc""  -^'-'^-"Txi 
herself. 


scious 


bul  Uk 
'  mark,  , .. 
nd,  and  ste; 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  FACT 

be  the  subject  of  an  epic  (here,  indeed, 
was  an  epic  ready  made),  might,  under 
conditions,  be  the  subject  of  a  drama  ;  but 
could  not,  under  any  conditions,  be  alone 
the  subject  of  a  picture  ?  I  don't  for  a 
moment  suggest  that  he  had,  or  that  any 
artist  ever  goes  to  work  in  this  double- 
entry,  methodical  way,  but  are  we  entitled 
to  say  that  he  was  not  influenced  by 
his  predilections,  his  determinations  as  a 
draughtsman,  when  he  squared  himself  to 
illustrate  the  Bible  ?  We  say  that  the 
subject  of  a  picture  is  the  spirit  of  natural 
fact.  If  Botticelli  was  a  painter,  that  is 
what  he  must  have  looked  for,  and  must 
have  found,  in  every  picture  he  painted. 
Where,  then,  was  he  to  get  his  natural 
facts  in  the  story  of  Judith  ?  What  is,  in 
that  story,  the  natural,  essential  (as  opposed 
to  the  historical,  fleeting)  fact  ?  It  is 
murder.  Judith's  deed  was  what  the  old 
Scots  law  incisively  calls  slauchter.  It 
may  be  glossed  over  as  assassination  or 
even  execution — in  fact,  in  Florence,  where 
Giuliano  was  soon  to  be  taken  off,  it  did 
not  fail  to  be  so  called  :  it  remains,  how- 
ever, just  murder.  Botticelli,  not  shirking 
the  position  at  all,  judged   murder  to  be 

107 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OP  TUSCANY: 

a  natural  fact,  and  its  spirit  or  essence 
swiftness  and  stealth.  Chaucer,  let  us 
note,  had  been  of  the  same  mind  : 

"  The  smyler  with  the  knyf  under  his  cloke," 

and  so  on,  in  lines  not  to  be  matched  for 
hasty  and  dreadful  suggestion.  Swiftness 
and  stealth,  the  ambush,  the  averted  face 
and  the  sudden  stab,  are  the  standing  ele- 
ments of  murder  :  pare  off  all  the  rest,  you 
come  down  to  that.  Your  staring  looks, 
your  blood,  your  "chirking,"  are  accident- 
als. They  may  be  there  (for  each  of  us 
carries  a  carcase),  but  the  horror  of  sudden 
death  is  above  them  :  a  man  may  strangle 
with  his  thoughts  clearer  than  with  his 
pair  of  hands.  And  as  "matter"  is  but 
the  stuff  wherewith  Nature  works,  and 
she  is  only  insulted,  not  defied,  when  we 
flout  or  mangle  it,  so  it  is  against  the  high 
dignity  of  Art  to  insist  upon  the  carrion 
she  must  use.  She  will  press,  here  the 
terror,  there  the  radiance,  of  essential  fact  ; 
she  will  leave  to  us,  seeing  it  in  her  face, 
to  add  mentally  the  poor  stage  properties 
we  have  grown  to  trust.  No  blood,  if  you 
please.  Therefore,  in  Botticelli's  Judith, 
nothing  but  the  essentials  is  insisted  on  ; 

io8 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  FACT 

the  rest  we  instantly  imagine,  but  it  is  not 
there  to  be  sensed.  The  panel  is  in  a 
tremor.  So  swift  and  secret  is  Judith,  so 
furtive  the  maid,  we  need  no  hurrying 
horsemen  to  remind  us  of  her  oath, — 
''Hear  me,  and  I  will  do  a  thing  which 
shall  go  throughout  all  generations  to  the 
children  of  our  nation."  Sudden  death  is 
in  the  air  ;  nature  has  been  outraged.  But 
there  is  no  drop  of  blood — the  thin  scarlet 
line  along  the  sword-edge  is  a  symbol  if 
you  will — the  pale  head  in  the  cloth  is  a 
mere  ''thing"  :  yet  we  all  know  what  has 
been  done.  Mr.  Ruskin  is  wrong  to  dwell 
here  upon  the  heroism  of  the  heroine,  the 
beneficence  of  the  crime,  the  exhilaration 
of  the  patriot  ;  he  is  traducing  the  painter 
by  so  praising  the  poet.  All  those  things 
may  be  there  ;  and  why  should  they  not  ? 
But  it  is  a  pity  to  insist  upon  them  until 
you  have  no  space  for  the  pictorial  some- 
thing which  is  there  too,  and  makes  the 
picture. 

Other  Judiths  there  are  ;  two  here,  one 
next  door  in  the  Pitti,  any  number  scattered 
over  the  galleries  of  Europe.  There  are 
Jacopo  Palma  of  Venice  and  Allori  of 
Florence  who  used  the  old  story,  the  one 
log 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANV: 

to  perpetuate  a  fat  blonde,  the  other  a  hand- 
some actress  in  a  "  strong  "  situation  ;  there 
is  Sodoma  ;  there  are  Horace  Vernet  and 
the  moderns,  the  Wests  and  Haydons  of 
our  grandfathers.  It  is  a  pet  subject  of  the 
Salon.  These  men  have  vulgarised  an  epic, 
and  smirched  poetry  and  painting  alike 
for  the  sake  of  a  tawdry  sensation.  But 
enough  :  let  us  look  at  one  more.  Man- 
tegna's  is  worth  looking  at.  It  is  a  pen 
drawing,  often  repeated,  best  known  by 
the  fine  engraving  he  finally  made  of  it. 
1  think  it  is  the  best  murder  picture  in  the 
world.  To  begin  with,  the  literary  interest 
of  the  story  is  practically  gone.  This  wild, 
terrible,  beautiful  woman  may  be  Judith  if 
you  choose  :  she  might  be  Medea  or  Agave, 
or  Salome,  or  the  Lucrezia  Borgia  of  popu- 
lar fancy  and  Donizetti.  The  fact  is  she 
is  part  of  a  scheme  whose  object  is  the 
aesthetic  aspect  of  murder — murder  con- 
sidered as  one  of  the  fine  arts.  Andrea  was 
able,  and  1  know  not  that  anybody  else 
of  his  day  could  have  been  able,  to  con- 
template murder  purely  objectively,  with 
no  thought  of  its  ethical  relations.  Botti- 
celli had  been  fired  by  the  heroism  and  the 
moral  grandeur  of  the  special  circumstances 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  FACT 

of  a  given  case  :  down  they  went  into  his 
picture  with  what  rightly  belonged  to  it. 
There  is  none  of  that  here.  And  Mantegna 
makes  other  distinctions  in  the  field  com- 
mon to  both  of  them.  Murder,  for  him, 
did  not  essentially  subsist  in  its  shock- 
ing suddenness  ;  it  held  something  more 
specific,  a  witchery  of  its  own,  a  macabre 
fascination,  a  mystery.  Leonardo  felt  it 
when  he  drew  his  Medusa  ;  Shelley  wrote 
it  down  *'the  tempestuous  loveliness  of 
terror."  Thus  it  had,  for  Mantegna,  an 
unique  emotional  habit  which  set  it  off 
from  other  vice  and  gave  it  a  positive, 
appreciable,  aesthetic  value  of  its  own. 
With  even  more  unerrancy  l^han  Botticelli, 
he  gripped  the  adjectival  and  qualifying 
function  of  his  art.  He  saw  that  crime, 
too,  had  its  pictorial  side.  When  Keats, 
writing  of  the  Lamia  sloughing  her  snake- 
folds,  tells  us  how — 

"  She  writhed  about,  convulsed  with  scarlet  pain;  " 

or  when,  of  organ  music,  he  says — 

"Up  aloft 
The  silver,  swar/zw^  trumpets  'gan  to  chide," 

he  is  simply,  in  his  own  art  and  with  his 
proper  methods,  getting  precisely  the  same 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

kind  of  efifect  :  he  is  incarnating  the  soul 
of  a  fact.  And  so  Mantegna,  with  his 
Roman  kindness  for  whatever  had  breadth 
and  vigour  and  boldness  of  design,  carved 
his  Judith  on  the  lines  of  a  Vestal  Virgin, 
and  gave  her  the  rapt,  daemonic  features 
of  the  Tragic  Muse.  And,  with  his  full 
share  of  that  unhealthy  craving  for  the 
mere  nastiness  of  crime,  that  Amina-trait 
which  distinguished  the  later  Empire  and 
its  correlate  the  Renaissance,  he  drew 
together  the  elements  of  his  picture  to 
express  an  eminently  characteristic  concep- 
tion of  curious  murder.  What  amplitude 
of  outline  ;  what  severe  grace  of  drapery  ! 
And  what  mad  affectation  of  attention  to 
the  ghastly  baggage  she  is  preparing  for 
her  flight  !  1  can  only  instance  for  a  paral- 
lel the  pitiful  case  of  the  young  Ophelia, 
decked  with  flowers  and  weeds,  and  falter- 
ing in  her  pretty  treble  songs  about  lechery 
and  dead  bodies.  It  needs  strong  men  to 
do  these  things  ;  men  who  have  lived  out 
all  that  the  world  can  offer  them  of  heaven 
and  hell,  and,  with  the  tolerance  of  ma- 
turity, are  in  the  mind  to  see  something 
worth  a  thought  in  either.  There  is  in 
murder    something     more    horrible    than 

112 


Alessandro  Botticelli 


i  the  la 


eminently  ci 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  FACT 

blood, — the  spirit  that  breeds  blood  and 
plays  with  it.  M.  Jan  van  Beers  and  his 
kindred  of  the  dissecting-room  and  acci- 
dents'-ward  are  passed  by  Mantegna,  who 
gives  no  vulgar  illusion  of  gaping  wounds 
and  jetting  blood  ;  but,  instead,  holds  up 
to  us  a  beautiful  woman  daintily  fingering 
a  corpse. 


"3 


VII 

QUATTROCENTISTERIA 

(how   SANDRO    BOTTICELLI    SAW    SIMONETTA    IN    THE  SPRING) 

» 

I 

UP  at  Fiesole,  among  the  olives  and 
chestnuts  which  cloud  the  steeps, 
the  magnificent  Lorenzo  was  entertaining 
his  guests  on  a  morning  in  April.  The 
olives  were  just  whitening  to  silver  ;  they 
stretched  in  a  trembling  sea  down  the  slope. 
Beyond  lay  Florence,  misty  and  golden; 
and  round  about  were  the  mossy  hills,  cut 
sharp  and  definite  against  a  grey-blue  sky, 
printed  with  starry  buildings  and  sober 
ranks  of  cypress.  The  sun,  catching  the 
mosaics  of  San  Miniato  and  the  brazen 
cross  on  the  facade,  made  them  shine  like 
sword-blades  in  the  quiver  of  the  heat  be- 
tween. For  the  valley  was  just  a  lake  of 
hot  air,  hot  and  murky — "  fever  weather," 
said  the  people  in  the  streets — with  a  glar- 
ing summer  sun  let  in  between  two  long 
spells  of  fog.  'T  was  unnatural  at  that 
season,  via  ;  but  the  blessed  Saints  sent  the 

114 


QUATTROCENTISTERIA 

weather,  and  one  could  only  be  careful  what 
one  was  about  at  sun-down. 

Up  at  the  villa,  with  brisk  morning  airs 
rustling  overhead,  in  the  cool  shades  of 
trees  and  lawns,  it  was  pleasant  to  lie  still, 
watching  these  things,  while  a  silky  young 
exquisite  sang  to  his  lute  a  not  too  auda- 
cious ballad  about  Selvaggia,  or  Becchina 
and  the  saucy  Prior  of  Sant'  Onofrio.  He 
sang  well,  too,  that  dark-eyed  boy ;  the  girl 
at  whose  feet  he  was  crouched  was  laugh- 
ing and  blushing  at  once;  and,  being  very 
fair,  she  blushed  hotly.  She  dared  not  raise 
her  eyes  to  look  into  his,  and  he  knew  it 
and  was  quietly  measuring  his  strength — it 
was  quite  a  comedy  !  At  each  wanton 
refrain  he  lowered  his  voice  to  a  whisper 
and  bent  a  little  forward.  And  the  girl's 
laughter  became  hysterical;  she  was  shak- 
ing with  the  effort  to  control  herself  At 
last  she  looked  up  with  a  sort  of  sob  in  her 
breath  and  saw  his  mocking  smile  and  the 
gleam  of  the  wild  beast  in  his  eyes.  She 
grew  white,  rose  hastily  and  turned  away 
to  join  a  group  of  ladies  sitting  apart.  A 
man  with  a  heavy,  rather  sullen  face  and  a 
bush  of  yellow  hair  falling  over  his  fore- 
head in  a  wave  was  standing  aside  watching 

115 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

all  this.  He  folded  his  arms  and  scowled 
under  his  big  brows  ;  and  when  the  girl 
moved  away  his  eyes  followed  her. 

The  lad  ended  his  song  in  a  broad  sar- 
casm amid  bursts  of  laughter  and  applause. 
The  Magnificent,  sitting  in  his  carved  chair, 
nursed  his  sallow  face  and  smiled  approval. 
'*  My  brother  boasts  his  invulnerability,"  he 
said,  turning  to  his  neighbour;  'Met  him 
look  to  it,  Messer  Cupido  will  have  him 
yet.  Already,  we  can  see,  he  has  been  let 
into  some  of  the  secrets  of  the  bower." 
The  man  bowed  and  smiled  deferentially. 
''Signor  Giuliano  has  all  the  qualities  to 
win  the  love  of  ladies,  and  to  retain  it. 
Doubtless  he  awaits  his  destiny.  The 
Wise  Man  has  said  that  '  Beauty  .  .  .'  " 
The  young  poet  enlarged  on  his  text  with 
some  fire  in  his  thin  cheeks,  while  the 
company  kept  very  silent.  It  was  much  to 
their  liking  ;  even  Giuliano  was  absorbed ; 
he  sat  on  the  ground  clasping  one  knee  be- 
tween his  hands,  smiling  upwards  into 
vacancy,  as  a  man  does  whose  imagination 
is  touched.  Lorenzo  nursed  his  sallow 
face  and  beat  time  to  the  orator's  cadences 
with  his  foot ;  he,  too,  was  abstracted  and 
smiling.      At  the    end   he   spoke:    "Our 

ii6 


QUATTROCENTISTERIA 

Marsilio  himself  has  never  said  nobler 
words,  my  Agnolo.  The  mantle  of  the 
Attic  prophet  has  descended  indeed  upon 
this  Florence.  And  Beauty,  as  thou  sayest, 
is  from  heaven.  But  where  shall  it  be 
found  here  below,  and  how  discerned.^" 
The  man  of  the  heavy  jowl  was  standing 
with  folded  arms,  looking  from  under  his 
brows  at  the  group  of  girls.  Lorenzo  saw 
everything;  he  noticed  him.  ''Our  San- 
dro  will  tell  us  it  is  yonder.  The  Star  of 
Genoa  shines  over  Florence  and  our  poor 
little  constellations  are  gone  out.  Ecco,  my 
Sandro,  gravest  and  hardiest  of  painters,  go 
summon  Madonna  Simonetta  and  her  hand- 
maidens to  our  Symposium.  Agnolo  will 
speak  further  to  us  of  this  sovereignty  of 
Beauty." 

The  painter  bowed  his  head  and  moved 
away. 

A  green  alley  vaulted  with  thick  ilex  and 
myrtle  formed  a  tapering  vista  where  the 
shadows  lay  misty  blue  and  pale  shafts  of 
light  pierced  through  fitfully.  At  the  far  end 
it  ran  out  into  an  open  space  and  a  splash 
of  sunshine.  A  marble  Ganymede  with 
lifted  arms  rose  in  the  middle  like  a  white 
flame.     The  girls  were  there,  intent  upon 

117 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

some  commerce  of  their  own,  flashing 
hither  and  thither  over  the  grass  in  a 
flutter  of  saffron  and  green  and  crimson. 
Simonetta — Sandro  could  see — was  a  little 
apart,  a  very  tall,  isolated  figure,  clear 
and  cold  in  a  recess  of  shade,  standing 
easily,  resting  on  one  hip  with  her  hands 
behind  her.  A  soft,  straight  robe  of  white 
clipped  her  close  from  shoulder  to  heel;  the 
lines  of  her  figure  were  thrust  forward  by 
her  poise.  His  eye  followed  the  swell  of 
her  bosom,  very  gentle  and  girlish,  and  the 
long  folds  of  her  dress  falling  thence  to  her 
knee.  While  she  stood  there,  proud  and 
remote,  a  chance  beam  of  the  sun  shone  on 
her  head  so  that  it  seemed  to  burn.  **  Heaven 
salutes  the  Queen  of  Heaven, — Venus 
Urania  !  "  With  an  odd  impulse  he  stopped, 
crossed  himself,  and  then  hurried  on. 

He  told  his  errand  to  her,  having  no 
eyes  for  the  others. 

*'  Signorina — I  am  to  acquaint  her  Serenity 
that  the  divine  poet  Messer  Agnolo  is  to 
speak  of  the  sovereign  power  of  beauty; 
of  the  Heavenly  Beauty  whereof  Plato 
taught,  as  it  is  believed." 

Simonetta  arched  a  slim  neck  and  looked 
down  at  the  obsequious  speaker,  or  at  least 


QUATTROCENTISTERIA 

he  thought  so.  And  he  saw  how  fair  she 
was,  a  creature  how  delicate  and  gracious, 
with  grey  eyes  frank  and  wide,  and  full 
red  lips  where  a  smile  (nervous  and  a  little 
wistful,  he  judged,  rather  than  defiant) 
seemed  always  to  hover.  Such  clear-cut, 
high  beauty  made  him  ashamed;  but  her 
colouring  (for  he  was  a  painter)  made  his 
heart  beat.  She  was  no  ice-bound  shadow 
of  deity  then  !  but  flesh  and  blood  ;  a  girl 
— a  child,  of  timid,  soft  contours,  of  warm 
roses  and  blue  veins  laced  in  a  pearly  skin. 
And  she  was  crowned  with  a  heavy  wealth 
of  red-gold  hair,  twisted  in  great  coils, 
bound  about  with  pearls,  and  smouldering 
like  molten  metal  where  it  fell  rippling 
along  her  neck.  She  dazzled  him,  so  that 
he  could  not  face  her  or  look  further.  His 
eyes  dropped.  He  stood  before  her  moody, 
disconcerted. 

The  girls,  who  had  dissolved  their  com- 
pany at  his  approach,  listened  to  what  he 
had  to  say  linked  in  knots  of  twos  and 
threes.  They  needed  no  excuses  to  return; 
some  were  philosophers  in  their  way, 
philosophers  and  poetesses  ;  some  had 
left  their  lovers  in  the  ring  round  Lorenzo. 
So  they  went  down  the  green  alley  still 

iig 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

locked  by  the  arms,  by  the  waist  or 
shoulders.  They  did  not  wait  for  Simon- 
etta.  She  was  a  Genoese,  and  proud  as  the 
snow.  Why  did  Giuliano  love  her  ?  Did 
he  love  her,  indeed  ?  He  was  bewitched 
then,  for  she  was  cold,  and  a  brazen  crea- 
ture in  spite  of  it.  How  dare  she  bare  her 
neck  so  !  Oh!  't  was  Genoese.  "Uomini 
senza  fede  e  donne  senza  vergogna,"  they 
quoted  as  they  ran. 

And  Simonetta  walked  alone  down  the 
way  with  her  head  high  ;  but  Sandro 
stepped  behind,  at  the  edge  of  her  trailing 
white  robe.     .     .     . 

.  .  .  The  poet  was  leaning  against  an 
ancient  alabaster  vase,  soil-stained,  yellow 
with  age  and  its  long  sojourn  in  the  loam, 
but  with  traces  of  its  carved  garlands 
clinging  to  it  still.  He  fingered  it  lovingly 
as  he  talked.  His  oration  was  concluding, 
and  his  voice  rose  high  and  tremulous  ; 
there  were  sparks  in  his  hollow  eyes.  .  .  . 
**And  as  this  sovereign  Beauty  is  queen 
of  herself,  so  she  is  subject  to  none  other, 
owns  to  no  constraining  custom,  fears  no 
reproach  of  man.  What  she  wills,  that 
has  the  force  of  a  law.  Being  Beauty,  her 
deeds  are  lovely  and  worshipful.    Therefore 


QUATTROCENTISTERIA 

Phryne,  whom  men,  groping  in  dark- 
ness and  the  dull  ways  of  earth,  dubbed 
courtesan,  shone  in  a  Court  of  Law  before 
the  assembled  nobles  of  Athens,  naked  and 
undismayed  in  the  blaze  of  her  fairness. 
And  Athens  discerned  the  goddess  and 
trembled.  Yes,  and  more;  even  as  Aph- 
rodite, whose  darling  she  was,  arose  pure 
from  the  foam,  so  she  too  came  up  out  of 
the  sea  in  the  presence  of  a  host,  and  the 
Athenians,  seeing  no  shame,  thought 
none,  but,  rather,  reverenced  her  the  more. 
For  what  shame  is  it  that  the  body  of  one 
so  radiant  in  clear  perfections  should  be 
revealed  ?  Is  then  the  garment  of  the  soul, 
her  very  mould  and  image,  so  shameful  ? 
Shall  we  seek  to  know  her  essence  by  the 
garment  of  a  garment,  or  hope  to  behold 
that  which  really  is  in  the  shadows  we  cast 
upon  shadows?  Shame  is  of  the  brute 
dullard  who  thinks  shame.  The  evil  ever 
sees  Evil  glaring  at  him.  Plato,  the  golden- 
mouthed,  with  the  soul  of  pure  fire,  has 
said  the  truth  of  this  matter  in  his  De  Re- 
publicd,  the  fifth  book,  where  he  speaks  of 
young  maids  sharing  the  exercise  of  the 
Palaestra,  yea,  and  the  Olympic  contests 
even !     For  he  says,  '  Let  the  wives  of  our 

121 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANS: 

wardens  bare  themselves,  for  their  virtue 
will  be  a  robe  ;  and  let  them  share  the 
toils  of  war  and  defend  their  country. 
And  for  the  man  who  laughs  at  naked 
women  exercising  their  bodies  for  high 
reasons,  his  laughter  is  a  fruit  of  unripe 
wisdom,  and  he  himself  knows  not  what 
he  is  about ;  for  that  is  ever  the  best  of 
sayings  that  '  the  useful  is  the  noble  and  the 
hurtful  the  base. '     .     .     ." 

There  was  a  pause.  The  name  of  Plato 
had  had  a  strange  effect  upon  the  company. 
You  would  have  said  they  had  suddenly 
entered  a  church  and  had  felt  all  lighter  in- 
terests sink  under  the  weight  of  the  dim, 
echoing  nave.  After  a  few  moments  the 
poet  spoke  again  in  a  quieter  tone,  but  his 
voice  had  lost  none  of  the  unction  which 
had  enriched  it.  .  .  .  "  Beauty  is 
queen:  by  the  virtue  of  Deity,  whose 
image  she  is,  she  reigns,  lifts  up,  fires. 
Let  us  beware  how  we  tempt  Deity  lest 
we  perish  ourselves.  Actaeon  died  when 
he  gazed  unbidden  upon  the  pure  body  of 
Artemis  ;  but  Artemis  herself  rayed  her 
splendour  upon  Endymion,  and  Endymion 
is  among  the  immortals.  We  fall  when  we 
rashly   confront   Beauty,    but  that   Beauty 


QUATTROCENTISTERIA 

who  comes  unawares  may  nerve  our  souls 
to  wing  to  heaven."  He  ended  on  a  re- 
sonant note,  and  then,  still  looking  out 
over  the  valley,  sank  into  his  seat.  Lorenzo, 
with  a  fine  humility,  got  up  and  kissed  his 
thin  hand.  Giuliano  looked  at  Simonetta, 
trying  to  recall  her  gaze,  but  she  remained 
standing  in  her  place,  seeing  nothing  of  her 
companions.  She  was  thinking  of  some- 
thing, frowning  a  little  and  biting  her  lip  ; 
her  hands  were  before  her ;  her  slim  fingers 
twisted  and  locked  themselves  nervously, 
like  a  tangle  of  snakes.  Then  she  tossed 
her  head,  as  a  young  horse  might,  and 
looked  at  Giuliano  suddenly,  full  in  the 
eyes.  He  rose  to  meet  her  with  a  deprecat- 
ing smile,  cap  in  hand — but  she  walked 
past  him,  almost  brushing  him  with  her 
gown,  but  never  flinching  her  full  gaze, 
threaded  her  way  through  the  group  to  the 
back,  behind  the  poet,  where  Sandro  was. 
He  had  seen  her  coming,  indeed  he  had 
watched  her  furtively  throughout  the  ora- 
tion, but  her  near  presence  disconcerted 
him  again — and  he  looked  down.  She 
was  strongly  excited  with  her  quick  re- 
solution ;  her  colour  had  risen  and  her 
voice  faltered  when  she  began  to  speak. 
123 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

She  spoke  eagerly,  running  her  words 
together. 

"  Ecco,  Messer  Sandro,"  she  whispered, 
blushing.     *'  You  have  heard  these  sayings. 

.  .  .  Who  is  there  in  Florence  like 
me  ?  " 

"There  is  no  one,"  said  Sandro,  simply. 

"I  will  be  your  Lady  Venus,"  she  went 
on,  breathlessly.  "You  shall  paint  me, 
rising  from  the  sea-foam.  .  .  .  The 
Genoese  love  the  sea."  She  was  still  eager 
and  defiant  ;  her  bosom  rose  and  fell 
unchecked. 

"The  Signorina  is  mocking  me;  it  is 
impossible;  the  Signorina  knows  it." 

"  Eh,  Madonna!  is  it  so  shameful  to  be 
fair — Star  of  the  Sea,  as  your  poets  sing  at 
evening  }  Do  you  mean  that  1  dare  not  do 
it  ?  Listen  then,  Signor  Pittore ;  to-morrow 
morning  at  mass-time  you  will  come  to  the 
Villa  Vespucci  with  your  brushes  and  pan? 
and  you  will  ask  for  Monna  Simonetta. 
Then  you  will  see.  Leave  it  now  ;  it  is 
settled."  And  she  walked  away  with  her 
head  high  and  the  same  superb  smile  on 
her  red  lips.  Mockery  !  She  was  in  dead 
earnest;  all  her  child's  feelings  were  in  hot 
revolt.  These  women  who  had  whispered 
124 


QUATTROCENTISTERIA 

to  each  other,  sniggered  at  her  dress,  her 
white  neck  and  her  free  carriage  ;  Giuliano, 
who  had  presumed  so  upon  her  candour — 
these  prying,  censorious  Florentines — she 
would  strike  them  dumb  with  her  amazing 
loveliness.  They  sang  her  a  goddess  that 
she  might  be  flattered  and  suffer  their 
company:  she  would  show  herself  a  god- 
dess indeed — the  star  of  her  shining  Genoa, 
where  men  were  brave  and  silent  and 
maidens  frank  like  the  sea.  Yes,  and  then 
she  would  withdraw  herself  suddenly  and 
leave  them  forlorn  and  dismayed. 

As  for  Sandro,  he  stood  where  she  had 
left  him,  peering  after  her  with  a  mist  in 
his  eyes.  He  seemed  to  be  looking  over 
the  hill-side,  over  the  city  glowing  afar  off 
gold  and  purple  in  the  hot  air,  to  Mont' 
Oliveto  and  the  heights,  where  a  line  of 
black  cypresses  stood  about  a  low  white 
building.  At  one  angle  of  the  building  was 
a  little  turret  with  a  belvedere  of  round 
arches.  The  tallest  cypresses  just  topped 
the  windows.  There  his  eyes  seemed  to 
rest. 

II 

At  mass-time  Sandro,  folded  in  his  shabby 
125 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

green  cloak,  stepped  into  the  sun  on  the 
Ponte  Vecchio.  The  morning  mists  were 
rolling  back  under  the  heat;  you  began  to 
see  the  yellow  line  of  houses  stretching 
along  the  turbid  river  on  the  far  side,  and 
frowning  down  upon  it  with  blank,  mud- 
stained  faces.  Above,  through  streaming 
air,  the  sky  showed  faintly  blue,  and  a 
campanile  to  the  right  loomed  pale  and  un- 
certain like  a  ghost.  The  sound  of  innu- 
merable bells  floated  over  the  still  city. 
Hardly  a  soul  was  abroad;  here  and  there  a 
couple  of  dusty  peasants  were  trudging 
in  with  baskets  of  eggs  and  jars  of  milk 
and  oil;  a  boat  passed  down  to  the  fishing, 
and  the  oar  knocked  sleepily  in  the  rowlock 
as  she  cleared  the  bridge.  And  above,  on 
the  heights  of  Mont'  Oliveto,  the  tapering 
forms  of  cypresses  were  faintly  outlined — 
straight  bars  of  shadow — and  the  level 
ridge  of  a  roof  ran  lightly  back  into  the  soft 
shroud. 

Sandro  could  mark  these  things  as  he 
stepped  resolutely  on  to  the  bridge,  crossed 
it,  and  went  up  a  narrow  street  among  the 
sleeping  houses.  The  day  held  golden 
promise;  it  was  the  day  of  his  life!  Mean- 
while the  mist   clung  to  him  and  nipped 

126 


QUATTROCENTISTERIA 

him;  what  had  fate  in  store?  What  was 
to  be  the  issue?  In  the  Piazza  Santo 
Spirito,  grey  and  hollow-sounding  in  the 
chilly  silences,  his  own  footsteps  echoed 
solemnly  as  he  passed  by  the  door  of  the 
great  ragged  church.  Through  the  heavy 
darkness  within  lights  flickered  faintly  and 
went;  service  was  not  begun.  A  drab 
crew  of  cripples  lounged  on  the  steps 
yawning  and  shivering,  and  two  country 
girls  were  strolling  to  mass  with  brown 
arms  round  each  other's  waists.  When 
Sandro's  footfall  clattered  on  the  stones 
they  stopped  by  the  door,  looking  after  him, 
and  laughed  to  see  his  dull  face  and  muffled 
figure.  In  the  street  beyond  he  heard  a 
bell  jingling,  hasty,  incessant;  soon  a 
white-robed  procession  swept  by  him, 
fluttering  vestments,  tapers,  and  the  Host 
under  a  canopy,  silk  and  gold.  Sandro 
snatched  at  his  cap  and  dropped  on  his 
knees  in  the  road,  crouching  low  and  mut- 
tering under  his  breath  as  the  vision  went 
past.  He  remained  kneeling  for  a  moment 
after  it  had  gone,  then  crossed  himself — 
forehead,  breast,  lip — and  hurried  forward. 
.  .  .  He  stepped  under  the  archway 
into  the  court.  There  was  a  youth  with  a 
127 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY : 

cropped  head  and  swarthy  neck  lounging 
there  teazing  a  spaniel.  As  the  steps 
sounded  on  the  flags  he  looked  up;  the  old 
green  cloak  and  clumsy  shoes  of  the  visitor 
did  not  interest  him ;  he  turned  his  back  and 
went  on  with  his  game.  Sandro  accosted 
him — Was  the  Signorina  at  the  house  ?  The 
boy  went  on  with  his  game.  "Eh,  Dia- 
volo  !     I  know  nothing  at  all,"  he  said. 

Sandro  raised  his  voice  till  it  rang  round 
the  courtyard.  ''You  will  go  at  once  and 
inquire.  You  will  say  to  the  Signorina  that 
Sandro  di  Mariano  Filipepi  the  Florentine 
painter  is  here  by  her  orders  ;  that  he  waits 
her  pleasure  below." 

The  boy  had  got  up  ;  he  and  Sandro 
eyed  each  other  for  a  little  space.  Sandro 
was  the  taller  and  had  the  glance  of  a 
hawk.  So  the  porter  went. 
Presently,  with  throbbing  brows,  he  stood 
on  the  threshold  of  Simonetta's  cham- 
ber. It  was  the  turret  room  of  the 
villa  and  its  four  arched  windows  looked 
through  a  leafy  tracery  over  towards 
Florence.  Sandro  could  see  down  below 
him  in  the  haze  the  glitter  of  the  Arno  and 
the  dusky  dome  of  Brunelleschi  cleave  the 
sward  of  the  hills  like  a  great  burnished 
128 


QUATTROCENTISTERIA 

bowl.  In  the  room  itself  there  was  tapes- 
try, the  Clemency  of  Scipio,  with  courtiers 
in  golden  cuirasses  and  tall  plumes,  and 
peacocks  and  huge  Flemish  horses — a  rich 
profusion  of  crimson  and  blue  drapery  and 
stout-limbed  soldiery.  On  a  bracket,  above 
a  green  silk  curtain,  was  a  silver  statuette 
of  Madonna  and  the  Bambino  Gesu,  with 
a  red  lamp  flickering  feebly  before  ;  by 
the  windows  a  low  divan  heaped  with 
velvet  cushions  and  skins.  But  for  a  coffer 
and  a  prayer  desk  and  a  curtained  recess 
which  enshrined  Simonetta's  bed,  the  room 
looked  wind-swept  and  bare. 

When  he  entered  Simonetta  was  stand- 
ing by  the  window  leaning  her  hand  against 
the  ledge  for  support.  She  was  draped 
from  top  to  toe  in  a  rose-coloured  mantle 
which  shrouded  her  head  like  a  nun's 
wimple  and  then  fell  in  heavy  folds  to  the 
ground.  She  flushed  as  he  came  in,  but 
saluted  him  with  a  grave  inclination. 
Neither  spoke.  The  silent  greeting,  the  full 
consciousness  in  each  of  their  parts,  gave 
a  curious  religious  solemnity  to  the  scene 
— like  some  familiar  but  stately  Church  mys- 
tery. Sandro  busied  himself  mechanically 
with    his   preparations  —  he  was  a    lover 

9 

129 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

and  his  pulse  chaotic,  but  he  had  come  to 
paint — and  when  these  were  done,  on  tip- 
toe, as  it  were,  he  looked  timidly  about  him 
round  the  room,  seeking  where  to  pose 
her.  Then  he  motioned  her  with  the  same 
reverential,  preoccupied  air,  silent  still,  to 
a  place  under  the  silver  Madonna.     .     .     . 

.  ,  .  There  was  a  momentary  quiver 
of  withdrawal.  Simonetta  blushed  vividly 
and  drooped  her  eyes  down  to  her  little 
bare  feet  peeping  out  below  the  lines  of 
the  rosy  cloak.  The  cloak's  warmth  shone 
on  her  smooth  skin  and  rayed  over  her 
cheeks.  In  her  flowery  loveliness  she 
looked  diaphanous,  ethereal  ;  and  yet  you 
could  see  what  a  child  she  was,  with  her 
bright  audacity,  her  ardour  and  her  wilful- 
ness flushing  and  paling  about  her  like  the 
dawn.  There  she  stood  trembling  on  the 
brink.     .     .     . 

Suddenly  all  her  waywardness  shot  into 
her  eyes  ;  she  lifted  her  arms  and  the  cloak 
fell  back  like  the  shard  of  a  young  flower  ; 
then,  delicate  and  palpitating  as  a  silver  reed, 
she  stood  up  in  the  soft  light  of  the  morn- 
ing, and  the  sun,  slanting  in  between  the 
golden  leaves  and  tendrils,  kissed  her  neck 
and  shrinking  shoulder. 

130 


QUATTROCENTISTERIA 

Sandro  stood  facing  her,  moody  and 
troubled,  fingering  his  brushes  and  bits  of 
charcoal;  his  shaggy  brows  were  knit,  he 
seemed  to  be  breathing  hard.  He  collected 
himself  with  an  effort  and  looked  up  at  her 
as  she  stood  before  him  shrinking,  awe- 
struck, panting  at  the  thing  she  had  done. 
Their  eyes  met,  and  the  girl's  distress  in- 
creased; she  raised  her  hand  to  cover  her 
bosom;  her  breath  came  in  short  gasps 
from  parted  lips,  but  her  wide  eyes  still 
looked  fixedly  into  his,  with  such  blank 
panic  that  a  sudden  movement  might  really 
have  killed  her.  He  saw  it  all;  she,  there 
at  his  mercy!  Tears  swam  and  he  trem- 
bled. Ah  !  the  gracious  lady  !  what 
divine  condescension!  what  ineffable  cour- 
tesy !  But  the  artist  in  him  was  awak- 
ened almost  at  the  same  moment;  his 
looks  wandered  in  spite  of  her  piteous 
candour  and  his  own  nothingness.  Sandro 
the  poet  would  have  fallen  on  his  face  with 
an  "  Exi  a  me,  nam  peccator  sum."  San- 
dro the  painter  was  different — no  mercy 
there.  He  made  a  snatch  at  a  carbon  and 
raised  his  other  hand  with  a  kind  of  com- 
mand— "  Holy  Virgin  !  what  a  line  !  Stay 
as  you  are,  I  implore  you:    swerve  not  one 

131 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

hair's  breadth  and  I  have  you  for  ever  ! " 
There  was  conquest  in  his  voice. 

So  Simonetta  stood  very  still,  hiding  her 
bosom  with  her  hand,  but  never  took  her 
watch  off  the  enemy.  As  he  ran  blindly 
about  doing  a  hundred  urgent  indispensa- 
ble things, — noting  the  lights,  the  line  she 
made,  how  her  arm  cut  across  the  folds  of 
the  curtain — she  dogged  him  with  staring, 
fascinated  eyes,  just  as  a  hare,  crouching  in 
her  form,  watches  a  terrier  hunting  round 
her  and  waits  for  the  end. 

But  the  enemy  was  disarmed.  Sandro 
the  passionate,  the  lover,  the  brooding  de- 
votee, was  gone ;  so  was  la  bella  Simonetta 
the  beloved,  the  be-hymned.  Instead, 
here  was  a  fretful  painter,  dashing  lines 
and  broad  smudges  of  shade  on  his  paper, 
while  before  him  rose  an  exquisite,  slender, 
swaying  form,  glistening  carnation  and  sil- 
ver, and,  over  all,  the  maddening  glow  of 
red-gold  hair.  Could  he  but  catch  those 
velvet  shadows,  those  delicate,  glossy,  re- 
flected lights  !  Body  of  Bacchus  !  How 
could  he  put  them  in  !  What  a  picture 
she  was!  Look  at  the  sun  on  her  shoulder! 
and  her  hair — Christ!  how  it  burned!  It 
was  a  curious  moment.  The  girl,  who  had 
132 


QUATTROCENTISTERIA 

never  understood  or  cared  to  understand 
this  humble  lover,  guessed  now  that  he 
was  lost  in  the  artist.  She  felt  that  she 
was  simply  an  effect,  and  she  resented  it  as 
a  crowning  insult.  Her  colour  rose  again, 
her  red  lips  gathered  into  a  pout.  If  San- 
dro  had  but  known,  she  was  his  at  that  in- 
stant. He  had  but  to  drop  the  painter, 
throw  down  his  brushes,  set  his  heart  and 
hot  eyes  bare — to  open  his  arms  and  she 
would  have  fled  into  them  and  nestled 
there;  so  fierce  was  her  instinct  just  then 
to  be  loved,  she,  who  had  always  been 
loved!  But  Sandro  knew  nothing  and  cared 
nothing.  He  was  absorbed  in  the  gracious 
lines  of  her  body,  the  lithe  long  neck,  the 
drooping  shoulder,  the  tenderness  of  her 
youth;  and  then  the  grand  open  curve  of 
the  hip  and  thigh  on  which  she  was  poised. 
He  drew  them  in  with  a  free  hand  in  great 
sweeping  lines,  eagerly,  almost  angrily; 
once  or  twice  he  broke  his  carbon  and — 
body  of  a  dog  ! — he  snatched  at  another. 

This  lasted  a  few  minutes  only  :  even 
Simonetta,  with  all  her  maiden  tremors  still 
feverishly  acute,  hardly  noticed  the  flight 
of  time  ;  she  was  so  hot  with  the  feeling  of 
her  wrongs,  the  slight  upon  her  victorious 

133 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

fairness.  Did  she  not  know  how  fair 
she  was  ?  She  was  getting  very  angry  ; 
she  had  been  made  a  fool  of.  All  Florence 
would  come  and  gape  at  the  picture  and 
mock  her  in  the  streets  with  bad  names 
and  coarse  gestures  as  she  rode  by.  She 
looked  at  Sandro.  Santa  Maria  !  how  hot 
he  was  !  His  hair  was  drooping  over  his 
eyes  !  He  tossed  it  back  every  second  ! 
And  his  mouth  was  open,  one  could  see 
his  tongue  working  !  Why  had  she  not 
noticed  that  great  mouth  before  }  'T  was 
the  biggest  in  all  Florence.  Oh  !  why  had 
he  come  }  She  was  frightened,  remorseful, 
a  child  again,  with  a  trembling,  pathetic 
mouth  and  shrinking  limbs.  And  then  her 
heart  began  to  beat  under  her  slim  fingers. 
She  pressed  them  down  into  her  flesh  to 
stay  those  great,  masterful  throbs.  A  tear 
gathered  in  her  eye  ;  larger  and  larger  it 
grew,  and  then  fell.  A  shining  drop  rested 
on  the  round  of  her  cheek  and  rolled  slowly 
down  her  chin  to  her  protecting  hand,  and 
lay  there  half-hidden,  shining  like  a  rain- 
drop between  two  curving  petals  of  a  rose. 
It  was  just  at  that  moment  the  painter 
looked  up  from  his  work  and  shook  his 
bush  of  hair  back.    Something  in  his  sketch 

134 


QUATTROCENTISTERIA 

had  displeased  him  ;  he  looked  up  frown- 
ing, with  a  brush  between  his  teeth.  When 
he  saw  the  tear-stained,  distressful,  beauti- 
ful face  it  had  a  strange  effect  upon  him. 
He  dropped  nerveless,  like  a  wounded  man, 
to  his  knees,  and  covered  his  eyes  with  his 
hands.  **Ah  Madonna!  for  the  pity  of 
heaven  forgive  me  !  forgive  me  !  I  have 
sinned,  I  have  done  thee  fearful  wrong  ;  I, 
who  still  dare  to  love  thee."  He  uncovered 
his  face  and  looked  up  radiant  ;  his  own 
words  had  inspired  him.  ''Yes,"  he  went 
on,  with  a  steadfast  smile,  "I,  Sandro,  the 
painter,  the  poor  devil  of  a  painter,  have 
seen  thee  and  I  dare  to  love  ! "  His  tri- 
umph was  short-lived.  Simonetta  had 
grown  deadly  white,  her  eyes  burned,  she 
had  forgotten  herself.  She  was  tall  and 
slender  as  a  lily,  and  she  rose,  shaking,  to 
her  height. 

"Thou  presumest  strangely,"  she  said, 
in  a  slow,  still  voice,  "  Go  !  Go  in  peace  !  " 

She  was  conqueror.  In  her  calm  scorn, 
she  was  like  a  young  immortal,  some  cold, 
victorious  Cynthia  whose  chastity  had  been 
flouted.  Sandro  was  pale  too  ;  he  said 
nothing  and  did  not  look  at  her  again.  She 
stood  quivering  with  excitement,  watching 

135 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

him  with  the  same  intent  alertness  as  he 
rolled  up  his  paper  and  crammed  his 
brushes  and  pencils  into  the  breast  of  his 
jacket.  She  watched  him  still  as  he  backed 
out  of  the  room  and  disappeared  through 
the  curtains  of  the  archway.  She  listened 
to  his  footsteps  along  the  corridor,  down 
the  stair.  She  was  alone  in  the  silence  of 
the  sunny  room.  Her  first  thought  was  for 
her  cloak  ;  she  snatched  it  up  and  veiled 
herself,  shivering  as  she  looked  fearfully 
round  the  walls.  And  then  she  flung  her- 
self on  the  piled  cushions  before  the  window 
and  sobbed  piteously,  like  an  abandoned 
child. 

The  sun  slanted  in  between  the  golden 
leaves  and  tendrils  and  played  in  the  tangle 
of  her  hair.     .     .     . 

Ill 

At  ten  o'clock  on  the  morning  of  April 
the  twenty-sixth,  a  great  bell  began  to  toll  : 
two  beats  heavy  and  slow,  and  then  silence, 
while  the  air  echoed  the  reverberation, 
moaning.  Sandro,  in  shirt  and  breeches, 
with  bare  feet  spread  broad,  was  at  work 
in  his  garret  on  the  old  bridge.  He  stayed 
his  hand  as  the  strong  tone  struck,  bent  his 
136 


QUATTROCENTISTERIA 

head  and  said  a  prayer  :  "Miserere  ei,  Do- 
mine  ;  requiem  eternam  dona,  Domine "  ; 
the  words  came  out  of  due  order,  as  if  he 
was  very  conscious  of  their  import.  Then 
he  went  on.  And  the  great  bell  went  on  ; 
two  beats  together,  and  then  silence.  It 
seemed  to  gather  solemnity  and  a  heavier 
message  as  he  painted.  Through  the  open 
window  a  keen  draught  of  air  blew  in  with 
dust  and  a  scrap  of  shaving  from  the  Lung' 
Arno  down  below  ;  it  circled  round  his 
workshop,  fluttering  the  sketches  and  rags 
pinned  to  the  walls.  He  looked  out  on  a 
bleak  landscape  —  San  Miniato  in  heavy 
shade,  and  the  white  houses  by  the  river 
staring  like  dead  faces.  A  strong  breeze 
was  abroad  ;  it  whipped  the  brown  water 
and  raised  little  curling  billows,  ragged  and 
white  at  the  edges,  and  tossed  about  snaps 
of  surf.  It  was  cold.  Sandro  shivered  as 
he  shut  to  his  casement  ;  and  the  stiffening 
gale  rattled  at  it  fitfully.  Once  again  it 
thrust  it  open,  bringing  wild  work  among 
the  litter  in  the  room.  He  made  it  fast  with 
the  rain  driving  in  his  face.  And  above 
the  howling  of  the  squall  he  heard  the 
sound  of  the  great  bell,  steady  and  un- 
moved, as  if  too  full  of  its  message  to  be 

137 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY : 

put  aside.  Yet  it  was  coming  to  him 
athwart  the  wind. 

Sandro  stood  at  his  casement  and  looked 
at  the  weather — beating  rain  and  yeasty 
water.  He  counted,  rather  nervously,  the 
pulses  between  each  pair  of  the  bell's  deep 
tones.  He  was  impressionable  to  circum- 
stances, and  the  coincidence  of  storm  and 
passing-bell  awed  him.  .  .  .  ''Either 
the  God  of  Nature  suffers  or  the  fabric  of 
the  world  is  breaking  "  ; — he  remembered 
a  scrap  of  talk  wafted  towards  him  (as  he 
stood  in  attendance)  from  some  humanist 
at  Lorenzo's  table  only  yesterday,  above  the 
light  laughter  and  snatches  of  song.  That 
breakfast  party  at  the  Camaldoli  yesterday  ! 
What  a  contrast — the  even  spring  weather 
with  the  sun  in  a  cloudless  sky,  and  now 
this  icy  dead  morning  with  its  battle  of 
wind  and  bell,  fighting,  he  thought, — over 
the  failing  breath  of  some  strong  man. 
Man  !  God,  more  like.  "The  God  of 
Nature  suffers,"  he  murmured,  as  he  turned 
to  his  work.     .     .     . 

Simonetta  had  not  been  there  yesterday. 
He  had  not  seen  her,  indeed,  since  that 
nameless  day  when  she  had  first  trans- 
ported him  with  the  radiance  of  her  bare 

138 


QUATTROCENTISTERIA 

beauty  and  then  struck  him  down  with  a 
level  gaze  from  steel-cold  eyes.  And  he 
had  deserved  it,  he  had — she  had  said — 
"  presumed  strangely."  Three  more  words 
only  had  she  uttered  and  he  had  slunk  out 
from  her  presence  like  a  dog.  What  a 
Goddess  !  Venus  Urania  !  So  she,  too, 
might  have  ravished  a  worshipper  as  he 
prayed,  and,  after,  slain  him  for  a  careless 
word.  Cruel  ?  No,  but  a  Goddess.  Beauty 
had  no  laws  ;  she  was  above  them.  Ag- 
nolo  himself  had  said  it,  from  Plato.  .  .  . 
Holy  Michael  !  What  a  blast  !  Black  and 
desperate  weather.  .  .  .  "Either  the 
God  of  Nature  suffers."  .  .  .  God 
shield  all  Christian  souls  on  such  a 
day  !     .     .     . 

One  came  and  told  him  Simonetta  Ves- 
pucci was  dead.  Some  fever  had  torn  at 
her  and  raced  through  all  her  limbs,  licking 
up  her  life  as  it  passed.  No  one  had 
known  of  it — it  was  so  swift  !  But  there 
had  just  been  time  to  fetch  a  priest  ;  Fra 
Matteo,  they  said,  from  the  Carmine,  had 
shrived  her  (it  was  a  bootless  task,  God 
knew,  for  the  child  had  babbled  so,  her 
wits  wandered,  look  you),  and  then  he  had 
performed  the  last  office.     One  had  fled  to 

139 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY : 

tell  the  Medici.  Giuliano  was  wild  with 
grief  ;  't  was  as  if  he  had  killed  her  instead 
of  the  Spring-ague — but  then,  people  said 
he  loved  her  well  !  And  our  Lorenzo  had 
bid  them  swing  the  great  bell  of  the  Duomo 
— Sandro  had  heard  it  perhaps  ? — and  there 
was  to  be  a  public  procession,  and  a  Re- 
quiem sung  at  Santa  Croce  before  they  took 
her  back  to  Genoa  to  lie  with  her  fathers. 
Eh  !  Bacchus  !  She  was  fair  and  Giuliano 
had  loved  her  well.  It  was  natural  enough 
then.  So  the  gossip  ran  out  to  tell  his 
news  to  more  attentive  ears,  and  Sandro 
stood  in  his  place  intoning  softly  '*Te 
Deum  Laudamus." 

He  understood  it  all.  There  had  been  a 
dark  and  awful  strife — earth  shuddering  as 
the  black  shadow  of  death  swept  by. 
Through  tears  now  the  sun  beamed  broad 
over  the  gentle  city  where  she  lay  lapped  in 
her  mossy  hills.  *'  Lux  eterna  lucet  ei,"  he 
said,  with  a  steady  smile;  "atque  lucebit," 
he  added  after  a  pause.  He  had  been  paint- 
ing that  day  an  agonizing  Christ,  red  and 
languid,  crowned  with  thorns.  Some  of  his 
own  torment  seems  to  have  entered  it,  for, 
looking  at  it  now,  we  see,  first  of  all,  wild 
eyeballs  staring  with  the  mad  earnestness, 

140 


QUATTROCENTISTERIA 

the  purposeless  intensity  of  one  seized 
or  ''possessed/'  He  put  the  panel  away 
and  looked  about  for  something  else,  the 
sketch  he  had  made  of  Simonetta  on  that 
last  day.  When  he  had  found  it,  he  rolled 
it  straight  and  set  it  on  his  easel.  It  was 
not  the  first  charcoal  study  he  had  made 
from  life,  but  a  brush  drawing  on  dark 
paper,  done  in  sepia-wash  and  the  lights  in 
white  lead.  He  stood  looking  into  it 
with  his  hands  clasped.  About  half  a 
braccia  high,  faint  and  shadowy  in  the 
pale  tint  he  had  used,  he  saw  her  there 
victim  rather  than  Goddess.  Standing 
timidly  and  wistfully,  shrinking  rather, 
veiling  herself,  maiden-like,  with  her  hands 
and  hair,  with  lips  trembling  and  dewy 
eyes,  she  seemed  to  him  now  an  immortal 
who  must  needs  suffer  for  some  great 
end;  live  and  suffer  and  die;  live  again, 
and  suffer  and  die.  It  was  a  doom  per- 
petual like  Demeter's,  to  bear,  to  nur- 
ture, to  lose  and  to  find  her  Perse- 
phone. She  had  stood  there  immaculate 
and  apprehensive,  a  wistful  victim.  Three 
days  before  he  had  seen  her  thus  ;  and 
now  she  was  dead.  He  would  see  her  no 
more. 

141 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

Ah,  yes !  Once  more  he  would  see 
her.     .     .     . 

They  carried  dead  Simonetta  through  the 
streets  of  Florence  with  her  pale  face  un- 
covered and  a  crown  of  myrtle  in  her  hair. 
People  thronging  there  held  their  breath 
or  wept  to  see  such  still  loveliness;  and 
her  poor  parted  lips  wore  a  patient  little 
smile,  and  her  eyelids  were  pale  violet  and 
lay  heavy  to  her  cheek.  White,  like  a 
bride,  with  a  nosegay  of  orange-blossom 
and  syringa  at  her  throat,  she  lay  there  on 
her  bed  with  lightly  folded  hands  and  the 
strange  aloofness  and  preoccupation  all 
the  dead  have.  Only  her  hair  burned  about 
her  like  a  molten  copper  ;  and  the  wreath 
of  myrtle  leaves  ran  forward  to  her  brows 
and  leapt  beyond  them  into  a  tongue. 

The  great  procession  swept  forward; 
black  brothers  of  Misericordia,  shrouded 
and  awful,  bore  the  bed  or  stalked  before  it 
with  torches  that  guttered  and  flared  sootily 
in  the  dancing  light  of  day.  They  held 
the  pick  of  Florence,  those  scowling  shrouds 
— Giuliano  and  Lorenzo,  Pazzi,  Tornabuoni, 
Soderini  or  Pulci  ;  and  behind,  old  Cat- 
taneo,  battered  with  storms,  walked 
142 


QUATTROCENTISTERIA 

heavily,  swinging  his  long  arms  and  look- 
ing into  the  day's  face  as  if  he  would  try 
another  fall  with  Death  yet.  Priests  and 
acolytes,  tapers,  banners,  vestments  and  a 
great  silver  Crucifix,  they  drifted  by, 
chanting  the  dirge  for  Simonetta;  and  she, 
as  if  for  a  sacrifice,  lifted  up  on  her  silken 
bed,  lay  couched  like  a  white  flower  edged 
colour  of  flame.     .     .     . 

.  .  .  Santa  Croce,  the  great  church, 
stretched  forward  beyond  her  into  the  dis- 
tances of  grey  mist  and  cold  spaces  of  light. 
Its  bare  vastness  was  damp  like  a  vault. 
And  she  lay  in  the  midst  listless,  heavy-lid- 
ded, apart,  with  the  half-smile,  as  it 
seemed,  of  some  secret  mirth.  Round  her 
the  great  candles  smoked  and  flickered, 
and  mass  was  sung  at  the  High  Altar  for 
her  soul's  repose.  Sandro  stood  alone 
facing  the  shining  altar,  but  looking  fixedly 
at  Simonetta  on  her  couch.  He  was  white 
and  dry — parched  lips  and  eyes  that  ached 
and  smarted.  Was  this  the  end  ?  Was  it 
possible,  my  God  !  that  the  transparent, 
unearthly  thing  lying  there  so  prone  and 
pale  was  dead  ?  Had  such  loveliness  aught 
to  do  with  life  or  dfeath  ?  Ah !  sweet  lady, 
dear  heart,  how  tired  she  was,  how  deadly 

143 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

tired!  From  where  he  stood  he  could  see 
with  intolerable  anguish  the  sombre  rings 
round  her  eyes  and  the  violet  shadows  on 
the  lids,  her  folded  hands  and  the  straight, 
meek  line  to  her  feet.  And  her  poor  wan 
face  with  its  wistful,  pitiful  little  smile  was 
turned  half  aside  on  the  delicate  throat,  as 
if  in  a  last  appeal: — "Leave  me  now,  O 
Florentines,  to  my  rest.  I  have  given  you 
all  1  had:  ask  no  more.  I  was  a  young 
girl,  a  child;  too  young  for  your  eager 
strivings.  You  have  killed  me  with  your 
play;  let  me  be  now,  let  me  sleep! "  Poor 
child!  Poor  child!  Sandro  was  on  his 
knees,  with  his  face  pressed  against  the  pul- 
pit and  tears  running  through  his  fingers  as 
he  prayed.     .     .     . 

As  he  had  seen  her,  so  he  painted.  As 
at  the  beginning  of  life  in  a  cold  world, 
passively  meeting  the  long  trouble  of  it,  he 
painted  her  a  rapt  Presence  floating  evenly 
to  our  earth.  A  grey,  translucent  sea  laps 
silently  upon  a  little  creek,  and  in  the  hush 
of  a  still  dawn  the  myrtles  and  sedges  on 
the  water's  brim  are  quiet.  It  is  a  dream 
in  half  tones  that  he  gives  us,  grey  and 
green  and  steely  blue  ;  and  just  that,  and 
some  homely  magic  of  his  own,  hint  the 
144 


mi, 


■  f  ■  V  > 


^^^ 


-%^T^^^\^ 


■P- 


QUATTROCENTISTERIA 

commerce  of  another  world  with  man's 
discarded  domain.  Men  and  women  are 
asleep,  and  as  in  an  early  walk  you  may 
startle  the  hares  at  their  play,  or  see  the 
creatures  of  the  darkness — owls  and  night 
hawks  and  heavy  moths — flit  with  fantas- 
tic purpose  over  the  familiar  scene,  so  here 
it  comes  upon  you  suddenly  that  you  have 
surprised  Nature's  self  at  her  mysteries  ; 
you  are  let  into  the  secret;  you  have  caught 
the  spirit  of  the  April  woodland  as  she 
glides  over  the  pasture  to  the  copse.  And 
that,  indeed,  was  Sandro's  fortune.  He 
caught  her  in  just  such  a  propitious  hour. 
He  saw  the  sweet  wild  thing,  pure  and  un- 
defiled  by  touch  of  earth;  caught  her  in 
that  pregnant  pause  of  time  ere  she  had 
lighted.  Another  moment  and  a  buxom 
nymph  of  the  grove  would  fold  her  in  a 
rosy  mantle,  coloured  as  the  earliest  wood- 
anemones  are.  She  would  vanish,  we 
know,  into  the  daffodils  or  a  bank  of  vio- 
lets. And  you  might  tell  her  presence 
there,  or  in  the  rustle  of  the  myrtles,  or 
coo  of  doves  mating  in  the  pines;  you 
might  feel  her  genius  in  the  scent  of  the 
earth  or  the  kiss  of  the  West  wind;  but 
you  could  only  see  her  in  mid-April,  and 

lO 

145 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

you  should  look  for  her  over  the  sea.  She 
always  comes  with  the  first  warmth  of  the 
year. 

But  daily,  before  he  painted,  Sandro  knelt 
in  a  dark  chapel  in  Santa  Croce,  while  a 
blue-chinned  priest  said  mass  for  the  repose 
of  Simonetta's  soul. 


146 


VIII 

THE  BURDEN  OF  NEW  TYRE 

FOR  a  short  time  in  her  motley  history, 
an  old-clothesman,  one  Domenico — 
he  and  his  ''Compagnia  del  Bruco,"  his 
Company  of  the  Worm* — reigned  over 
Siena  and  gave  to  her  people  a  taste  for 
blood.  It  was  a  bloodshed  on  easy  terms 
they  had  ;  for  surely  no  small  nation  (ex- 
cept that  tiger-cat  Perugia)  has  achieved 
so  much  massacre  with  so  little  fighting. 
Massacre  considered  as  one  of  the  Fine 
Arts  ?  No  indeed  ;  but  massacre  as  a  via- 
ticum, as  ''title  clear  to  mansions  in  the 
skies"  ;  for,  with  more  complacency  than 
discrimination,  these  sated  citizens  chose 
to  dedicate  their  most  fantastic  blood-orgies 
by  a  Missa  de  Spiritvi  Sancto  in  the  Cathe- 
dral Church.  The  old-clothesman,  who  by 
some  strange  oversight  died  in  his  bed, 
was  floated  up  on  the  incense  of  this  de- 
vout  service   to   show   his    hands,    and — 

*  This  was  one  of  the  Contrade  into  which  the  City 
was  divided,  and  of  which  each  had  its  totem-sign. 

147 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

marvel  ! — Saint  Catherine,  the  "amorosa 
sposa  "  of  Heaven,  reigned  in  his  stead. 
Certainly,  for  unction  spiced  with  ferocity, 
for  a  madness  which  alternately  kissed  the 
Crucifix  and  trampled  on  it,  for  mandra- 
gora  and  fleurs  de  lys,  saints  and  succubi, 
churches  and  lupanars — commend  me  to 
Siena  the  red. 

You  are  not  to  suppose  that  she  has  not 
paid  for  all  this,  the  red  Siena.  None  of 
it  is  absolved  ;  it  is  there  floating  vaguely 
in  the  atmosphere.  It  chokes  the  gully- 
trap  streets  in  August  when  the  air  is  like 
a  hot  bath  ;  it  wails  round  the  corners  on 
stormy  nights  and  you  hear  it  battling 
among  the  towers  overhead,  buffeting  the 
stained  walls  of  criminal  old  palaces  and 
churches  grown  hoary  in  iniquity — so  many 
half-embodied  centuries  of  deadly  sin 
gnawing  their  spleens  or  shrieking  their 
infamous  carouse  over  again.  So,  at  least, 
1  found  it.  Without  baring  myself  to  the 
charge  of  any  sneaking  kindness  for  blood- 
shedding,  I  may  own  to  the  fascination  of 
the  precipitous  fortress-town  huddled  red 
and  grey  on  its  three  red  crags,  and  of  its 
suggestion  of  all  the  old  crimes  of  Italy 
from  Ezzelino's  to  Borgia's,  of  all  unhappy 
148 


THE  BURDEN  OF  NEW  TYRE 

deaths  from  Pia  de'  Tolomei's  to  Vittoria's, 
the  White  Devil  of  Italy.  Its  air  seemed 
''blood-boltered "  (like  the  shade  of  the 
hunted  Banquo),  its  stones,  curiously 
slippery  for  such  dry  weather,  cried 
**  Haro  !  "  or  *'  Out  !  Havoc  !  "  And  above 
it  all  shone  a  marble  church,  white  as  a 
bride  ;  while  now  and  again  on  a  favour- 
able waft  of  wind  came  the  fragrant  mem- 
ory of  Saint  Catherine.  It  is  the  peak  of 
earth  most  charged  with  wayward  emo- 
tions— pity  and  terror  blent  together  into  a 
poignant  beauty,  a  sorcery.  Imagine  your- 
self one  of  those  old  Popes — Linus  or 
Anaclete  or  Damasius — whose  heads  spike 
the  clerestory  of  the  Duomo,  you  would 
look  down  upon  a  sea  of  pictures  (by  the 
best  pavement-artists  in  the  world) — the 
Massacre  of  the  Innocents  like  a  patch  of  dry 
blood  by  the  altar-steps,  a  winking  Ma- 
donna in  the  Capella  del  Voto  thronged 
with  worshippers,  Hermes  Trismegistus, 
a  freaksome  wizard,  by  the  West  door, 
and  a  gilded  array  of  the  great  world  smil- 
ing and  debonnair  in  the  sacristy.  Not  far 
off  is  Sodoma's  lovely  Catherine  fainting 
under  the  sweet  dolour  of  her  spousals. 
Are  you  for  the  White  or  the  Black  Mass  } 
149 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

Cybele  or  the  Holy  Ghost  ?  Catherine  or 
Hermes  Trismegistus  ?  Siena  will  give  you 
any  and  yet  more  cunning  confections.  It 
is  very  strange. 

The  approach  to  her  three  hills,  if  you 
are  not  flattened  by  the  intolerable  pilgrim- 
age from  Florence,  is  fine.  Hints  of  what 
is  to  come  greet  you  in  the  frittered  shale 
of  the  grey  country-side  broken  abruptly 
by  little  threatening  hill-towns.  The  scar 
juts  out  of  the  earth's  crust,  rising  sheer,  and 
there  on  a  fretted  peak  hovers  a  fortress- 
village,  steep  red  roofs,  an  ancient  bell- 
tower  or  two  with  a  lean  barrel  of  a  church 
beyond  ;  all  the  lines  cut  sharp  to  the  clean 
sky  ;  a  bullock  cart  creaking  up  home- 
wards ;  the  shiver  and  dust  of  olives  round 
the  walls.  You  could  swear  you  caught 
the  glint  of  a  long  gun  over  the  machicola- 
tions ;  but  it  is  only  a  casement  fired  by 
the  westering  sun.  Such  are  San  Miniato, 
Castel  Fiorentino,  Poggibonsi  (where  stayed 
Lorenzo's  Nencia — his  Nancy,  we  should 
call  her),  San  Gimignano  and  its  Fina,  a 
little  girl-saint  of  fifteen  springs  ;  such,  too, 
is  Siena  when  you  get  there,  but  redder, 
her  grey  stones  blushing  for  her  sins.  And 
the  country  blushes  for  her  as  you  draw 

150 


THE  BURDEN  OF  NEW  TYRE 

near,  for  all  the  vineyards  are  dotted  with 
burning  willows  in  the  autumn — osier- 
bushes  flaming  at  the  heart.  Let  it  be 
night  when  you  arrive — the  dead  vast  and 
middle  of  a  still  night.  Then  suffer  your- 
self to  be  whirled  through  the  inky  streets, 
over  the  flags,  from  one  hill  to  another. 
It  is  deathly  quiet  ;  no  soul  stirs.  The 
palaces  rise  on  either  hand  like  the  ghosts 
of  old  reproaches  ;  a  flickering  lamp  reveals 
a  gully  as  black  as  a  grave,  and  shines  on 
the  edge  of  a  lane  which  falls  you  know 
not  whither.  You  turn  corners  which 
should  complicate  a  maze,  you  scrape  and 
clatter  down  steeps,  you  groan  up  mountain- 
sides. All  in  the  dark,  mind.  And  the 
great  white  houses  slide  down  upon  you 
to  the  very  flags  you  are  beating  ;  you 
could  nearly  touch  either  wall  with  a  hand. 
So  you  swerve  round  a  column,  under  a 
votive  lamp,  and  have  left  the  stars  and 
their  violet  bed.  You  are  in  a  cortile :  men 
say  there  is  an  inn  here  with  reasonable 
entertainment.  If  it  is  the  Aquila  Nera 
it  will  serve.  There  is  no  sound  beyond 
the  labouring  of  our  horses'  wind  and  of 
some  outland  dog  in  the  far  distance  baying 
for  a  moon.  This  is  Siena  at  her  black  magic. 

151 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY : 

I  maintain  that  the  impression  you  thus 
receive  holds  you.  Next  morning  there  is 
a  blare  of  sun.  It  will  blind  you  at  first, 
blister  you.  Rayed  out  from  plaster-walls 
which  have  been  soaking  in  it  for  five  cent- 
uries, driven  up  in  palpable  waves  of  heat 
from  the  flags,  lying  like  a  lake  of  white 
metal  in  the  Piazza,  however  recklessly 
this  truly  royal  sun  may  beam,  in  Siena 
you  will  feel  furtive  and  astare  for  sudden 
death. 

There  is  nothing  frank  and  open  about 
Siena  ;  none  of  your  robust,  red-lunged, 
open-air  Paganism.  Theophile  Gautier, 
Baudelaire,  Poe  —  such  super-sensitive 
plants  should  have  known  it,  instead  of 
the  ingenuous  M.  Bourget  and  the  delib- 
erate Mr.  Henry  James.  M.  Bourget 
looked  at  the  Sodomas  and  Mr.  James  ad- 
mired the  view:  what  a  romance  we  should 
have  had  from  Gautier  of  illicit  joys  and 
their  requital  by  a  knife,  what  a  strophe 
from  Baudelaire  half-obscene,  half-mourn- 
ful, wholly  melodious.  But  Theophile 
Gautier  tarried  in  Venice,  and  as  for  M. 
Charles,  the  man  of  pronounced  tastes  and 
keen  nose  stuck  in  the  main  to  Paris. 
Failing  them  as  guides,  go  you  first  to  the 

152 


THE  BURDEN  OF  NEW  TYRE 


Piazza  del  Campo  where  horses 
race   in   August — all  roads  lead 
thither.      Contraries   again  !     A      L 
square  ?     It  is  a  cup.     A  field  ?     ^ 
It  is  a  Gabbatha :  a  place  of  burn-      \ 
ing  pavements.     Were  red  brick   nr; 
and  Gothic  ever  so  superbly  com-  I  ^- 
pounded  before,  to  be  so  strong 
and  yet  so  lithe  ?      That  is  the 
Palazzo   Publico,    the   shrine   of 
Aristotle's  Politics  and  the  Mira- 
cles of  the  Virgin.     What  is  that 
long  spear  which  seems  to  shake 
as  it  glances  skywards  }    It  is  n't 
a  spear;  it 's  the  Torre  del  Mangia 
— the  loveliest  tower  in  Tuscany, 
the  filia  pulchrior  of  a  beautiful 
mother,  the  Torre  della  Vacca  of 
Florence.     That  tower  rises  from 
the   bottom  of  the  cup 
and  shoots  straight  up- 
wards, nor  stays  till  it  has 
out-topped  the  proudest 
belfry  on  the  hills  about 
it.     But  what  a  square 
this  is  !     The  backs  of 
the  houses  (whose  front 
doors  are  high  above  on 


& 


.m 


'^ir^.* 


153 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

the  hill-top)  stand  like  bald  cliffs  on  every 
side.  You  cannot  see  any  outlets:  most  of 
them  are  winding  stairways  cut  between  the 
houses.  The  lounging,  shabby  men  and 
girls  seem  handsomer  and  lazier  than  you 
found  them  in  Florence.  They  seem  to 
have  room  to  stretch  their  fine  limbs  against 
these  naked  walls.  Their  maturity  is  almost 
tropical.  The  girls  wear  flopping  straw 
hats  :  wide,  sorrowful  eyes  stare  at  you 
from  the  shady  recesses,  and  the  round- 
ing of  their  chins  and  beautiful  proud  necks 
are  marked  by  glossy  lights.  "Morbida 
e  bianca,"  sang  Lorenzo.  1  suppose  they 
think  of  little  more  than  the  market  price 
of  spring  onions  :  but  then,  why  do  their 
eyes  speak  like  that  ?  And  what  do  they 
speak  of  ?  Dio  mio,  I  am  an  honest  man  1 
So  was  not  Lorenzo  ;  listen  to  him  : 

"  Two  eyes  hath  she,  so  roguish  and  demure 
That,  lit  they  on  a  rock,  they  'd  make  it  feel  ; 
How  shall  poor  melting  men  meet  such  a  lure  ?  " 

How  indeed  ?    Ah,  Nenciozza  mia  ! 

**  My  little  Nancy  shows  nor  fleck  nor  pimple  ; 
Pliant  and  firm  is  she,  a  reed  for  grace  : 
In  her  smooth  chin  there  's  just  one  pretty  dimple 
That  rounds  the  perfect  measure  of  her  face.  " 

154 


THE  BURDEN  OF  NEW  TYRE 

That  dimple  has  been  the  destruction  of 
many  a  heart: — 

"  So  wise,  withal,  above  us  other  simple 
Plain  folk— sure,  Nature  set  her  in  this  place 
To  bloom  her  tender  whiteness  all  about  us, 
And  break  our  hearts — and  then  bloom  on   without 
us." 

Yes  indeed,  my  Lorenzo.  But  enough  ! 
Let  us  take  shelter  in  the  Duomo. 

Barred  like  a  tiger,  glistening  snow  and 
rose  and  gold,  topped  by  a  flaunting  angel, 
her  door  flanked  by  the  lean  Roman  wolf  ; 
paved  with  pictures,  hemmed  with  the 
Popes  from  Peter  to  Pius,  encrusted  with 
marbles  and  gemmy  frescoes,  it  is  a  casket 
of  delights,  this  church,  and  the  quintessence 
of  Siena — molles  Senx  as  Beccadelli,  him- 
self of  this  Tyre,  dubbed  his  native  town. 
Voluptuous  as  she  was,  tigerish  Siena  was 
more  consistent  than  you  would  think. 
True,  Saints  Catherine  and  Bernardine  con- 
sort oddly  with  the  old-clothesman  saying 
mass  with  wet  hands,  and  Beccadelli 
the  soft  singer  of  abominations,  just  as 
the  ''Madones  aux  longs  regards"  of  the 
Primitives — pious  creatures  of  slim  idle 
fingers  and  desirous  eyes,  pining  in  brocade 
and  jewels — seem  in  a  different  sphere  (as 

155 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY : 

indeed  they  are)  from  Pinturricchio's  well- 
found  Popes  and  Princesses,  and  Sodoma's 
languishing  boys  or  half-ripe  Catherines 
dying  of  love.  Have  I  not  said  this  was 
once  a  city  of  pleasure  ?  And  whether  the 
pleasure  was  a  blood-feast  or  an  Agape,  or  a 
Platonic  banquet  where  the  flute-players  and 
wine-cups  and  crowns  crushed  out  the  high 
disquisition  and  philosophic  undercurrent 
— it  was  all  one  to  soft  Siena  drowsing  the 
days  out  on  her  hills.  Her  pleasures  were 
fierce,  and  beautiful  as  fierce.  But  the  bur- 
den of  Tyre  is  always  the  same.  And  so 
the  memories  of  a  thousand  ancient  wrongs 
unpurged  howl  over  the  red  city,  as  once 
howled  the  ships  of  Tarshish. 


[56 


IX 

ILARIA,  MARIOTA,   BETTINA 
(studies  in  translation  from  stone) 

GREATEST  of  great  ladies  is  Ilaria, 
potens  Utccce,  sleeping  easily,  with 
chin  firmly  rounded  to  the  vault,  where 
she  has  slept  for  five  hundred  years,  and 
still  a  power  in  Lucca  of  the  silver  planes. 
It  was  a  white-hot  September  day  I  went 
to  pay  my  devotions  to  her  shrine.  Lucca 
drowsed  in  a  haze,  her  bleached  arcades  of 
trees  lifeless  in  the  glare  of  high  noon  ;  all 
the  valley  was  winking,  the  very  bells  had 
no  strength  to  chime:  and  then  I  saw 
Ilaria  lie  in  the  deep  shade  waiting  for  the 
judgment.  Ilaria  was  a  tall  Tuscan — the 
girls  of  Lucca  are  out  of  the  common  tall, 
and  straight  as  larches — of  fine  birth  and  a 
life  of  minstrels  and  gardens.  Pompous 
processions,  trapped  horses,  emblazonings, 
were  hers,  and  all  refinements  of  High 
Masses  and  Cardinals.  So  she  lived  once  a 
life  as  stately-ordered  as  old  dance-music, 
in  the  airy   corridors  of    a   great  marble 

157 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY  = 

palace,  swept  hourly  by  the  thin,  clear  air 
of  the  Lucchesan  plain;  and  her  lord  went 
out  to  war  with  Pisa  or  Pescia,  or  even 
farther  afield,  following  Emperor  or  Pope 
to  that  Monteaperti  which  made  Arbia  run 
colour  of  wine,  or  shrill  Benevento,  or 
Altopascio  which  cost  the  Florentines  so 
dear.*  But  llaria  stayed  at  home  to  trifle 
with  lap-dogs  and  jongleurs  under  the 
orange  trees  ;  heard  boys  make  stammer- 
ing love,  and  laughed  lightly  at  their 
Decameron  travesty,  being  too  proud  to  be 
ashamed  or  angered  ;  and  sometimes  (for 
she  was  not  too  proud  but  that  love  should 
be  of  the  party),  she  pulled  a  ring  from 
one  lithe  finger,  and  looked  down  while 
the  lad  kissed  it  for  a  holy  relic  and  put  it 
in  his  bosom  reverently, — pretending  not 
to  see.  But,  llaria,  you  knew  well  what 
gave  colour  to  the  faint  and  worn  old  words 
about  F/or  di  spin  giallo,  or  O  Dea  fatale, 
or 

"  O  Dio  de'  Dei  ! 
La  piu  bellina  mi  parete  voi  ; 
O  quanto  sete  cara  agli  occhi  miei !  " 

And  SO  the  days  passed  in  your  square 

*  Historically    he  could  have   done   none   of    these 
things,  except,  perhaps,  fight  at  Altopascio. 

158 


ILARIA,  MARIOTA,  BETTINA 

corner  palace,  until  the  plague  came  down 
with  the  North  wind,  and  you  bowed  your 
proud  neck  before  it  like  a  mountain  pine. 
Young  to  die,  young  to  die  and  leave  the 
pleasant  ways  of  Lucca,  the  green  ram- 
parts, the  grassy  walks  in  the  pastures 
where  the  hawks  fly  and  the  shadows  fleet 
over  the  green  and  gold  of  early  May. 
Young  enough,  Ilaria.  Scorner  of  love, 
now  Death  is  at  hand,  with  the  bats'  wings 
and  wet  scythe  they  give  him  in  the  Piazza, 
when  your  lord  comes  triumphing  or  God's 
Body  takes  the  air:  what  of  him,  Ma- 
donna ?  Let  him  come,  says  Ilaria,  with 
raised  eyebrows  and  a  wintry  smile.  Yet 
she  fought:  her  thin  hands  held  off  the 
scythe  at  arms'  length ;  she  set  her  teeth  and 
battled  with  the  winged  beast.  Whenas  she 
knew  it  must  be,  suddenly  she  relaxed  her 
hold,  and  Death  had  his  way  with  her. 

Then  her  women  came  about  her  and 
robed  her  in  a  long  robe,  colour  of  olive 
leaves,  and  soft  to  the  touch.  And  they 
covered  soberly  her  feet  and  placed  them 
on  a  crouching  dog,  which  was  Lucca. 
But  her  fine  hands  they  folded  peace-wise 
below  her  bosom,  to  rest  quietly  there  like 
the  clasps  of  a  girdle.      Her  gentle   hair 

159 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

(bright  brown  it  was,  like  a  yearling  chest- 
nut) they  crowned  also,  and  closed  down 
her  ringed  eyes.  So  they  let  her  lie  till 
judgment  come.  And  when  1  saw  her  the 
close  robe  still  folded  her  about  and  ran 
up  her  throat  lovingly  to  her  chin,  till  her 
head  seemed  to  thrust  from  it  as  a  flower 
from  its  calyx.  It  would  seem,  too,  as 
if  her  bosom  rose  and  fell,  that  her  nos- 
trils quivered  when  the  wind  blew  in  and 
touched  them;  and  the  hem  of  her  gar- 
ment being  near  me,  I  was  fain  to  kiss 
it  and  say  a  prayer  to  the  divinity  haunting 
that  place.  So  1  left  the  presence  well  dis- 
posed in  my  heart  to  glorify  God  for  so  fair 
a  sight. 

Whereafter  1  took  the  way  to  Florence 
among  the  vineyards  and  tangled  hill-sides; 
and,  anon,  in  the  broad  plain  1  stayed  at 
Prato  to  honour  the  lady  of  the  town. 
Madonna  della  Cintola  she  is  called  now, 
and  one  Luca,  a  worker  in  clay,  knew  her 
mind  most  intimately  and  did  all  her  will. 
Quiet  days  she  had  lived  at  Prato,  being 
wife  to  a  decent  metal-worker  there  and 
keeper  of  his  house  and  stuff.  Mariota  she 
was  then  called  for  all  her  name,  but  as 
to  her  parentage  none  knew  it,  save  that 

i6o 


ILARIA,  MARIOTA,  BETTINA 

Marco's  Vanna  had  been  both  frail  and  fair, 
and  when  she  had  been  in  flower  the  great 
Lord  Ottoboni  had  flowered  likewise — and 
often  in  her  company.  Giovanna  I  had 
never  known  ;  she  died  before  her  lord 
married  the  Lady  Adhelidis  of  Verona  and 
the  seven  days'  tilting  were  held  in  her 
honour  in  a  field  below  the  city  wall.  But 
when  Luca  first  knew  Mariota  and  saw 
how  her  mother's  pride  beaconed  from  her 
smooth  brow,  the  girl  was  standing  in  the 
Piazza  in  a  tattered  green  kirtle  and  bodice 
that  gaped  at  the  hooks,  played  upon  by 
sun,  and  fallow  wind,  and  longing  looks 
driven  at  her  eyes  in  vain.  The  wench 
carried  her  head  and  light  fardel  of  years 
like  a  Princess;  would  laugh  to  show  her 
fine  teeth  if  your  jest  pleased  her;  and  then 
she  would  look  straightly  upon  you  and  be 
glad  of  you.  If  you  pleased  her  not,  she 
would  look  through  you  to  the  mountains 
or  the  church-tower.  She  had  as  squarely 
a  modelled  chin  as  ever  I  saw,  and  her  lips 
firmly  set  and  redder  than  strawberries  in  a 
wet  May.  None  taught  her  anything; 
none,  that  Luca  could  learn,  gave  her  sup 
or  bed.  He  was  a  boy  then  and  would 
have  given  her  both.     I  think  she  knew  he 

i6i 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

favoured  her — what  girl  does  not  ?  Every- 
body favoured  Mariota, — stayed  as  she 
passed,  and  followed  her  stealthily  with 
troubled  eyes.  But  he  was  a  moody  boy 
then,  at  the  mercy  of  dreams,  and  stam- 
mered when  he  was  near  her,  blushing. 
When  he  came  back  she  was  seventeen 
years  old,  and  the  metal-worker's  wife. 
It  was  then  Luca  saw  her,  in  the  street 
called  of  the  Eye,  where  climbing  plants 
top  the  convent  wall  and  from  the  garden 
comes  the  scent  of  wall-flowers  and  sweet 
marjoram. 

At  her  man's  door  she  was  standing, 
barefooted,  fray-kirtled  as  of  old  ;  but 
riper,'  of  more  assured  and  triumphant 
beauty.  In  her  arms  a  boy-child,  lusty  and 
half-naked,  struggled  to  be  fed,  seeking 
with  both  fat  hands  to  forage  for  himself. 
Turning  her  grey  eyes,  where  pride  slum- 
bered and  shame  had  never  been,  she  knew 
Luca  again,  made  him  welcome  at  the  door, 
with  superb  assurance  set  wine  and  olives 
and  bread  before  him ;  and  so  stood  at  the 
table  while  he  ate,  gravely  recovering  one 
by  one  the  features  of  his  face,  smiling, 
preoccupied  with  her  pleasure  and  uncon- 
scious of  the  cooing  child.  For  with 
162 


ILARIA,  MARIOTA,  BETTINA 

matronly  composure  she  had  eased  my 
gentleman  as  soon  as  she  had  provided  for 
her  guest. 

In  comes  the  metal-worker,  Sor  Matteo, 
burly  but  watchful  in  a  greasy  apron,  eyes 
the  lad  up  and  down  with  much  burden- 
some pondering  of  hand  to  scrubby  chin, 
as  to  say  to  Mariota  "  I'm  no  fool."  With 
never  a  blush,  nor  a  quailing  of  the  eyes' 
level  beam,  Mariota  begs  cousin  Luca  to 
become  conscious  of  her  master. 

There  were  the  makings  of  a  piece  of 
right  Boccacesque  in  all  this,  and  the  pa- 
drone showed  manifest  disinclination  for 
his  accustomed  part:  but  Luca's  candid 
face  disclaimed  all  dark-entry  work.  Mari- 
ota hurried  to  her  task.  A  modeller  in 
clay,  a  statuary,  via,  an  admirer  of  the 
choicer  contrivings  of  Mother  Nature !  What 
and  if  he  should  find  his  cousin,  his  scarce- 
remembered  gossip  Mariota,  worth  an  ar- 
tist's half -closed  eye  !  And  the  hambin- 
accio  (with  a  side-look  and  face  averted 
as  5he  spoke) — ecco! — many  a  Gesulino 
showed  a  leaner  thigh  and  cheeks  less 
peachy  than  he.  Had  Papa  seen  the  new 
dimple  in  Beppino's  chin  ?  And  more  soft 
piping  to  the  same  tune.     Master  Matteo 

163 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

was  appeased ;  but  Luca  was  far  adrift  with 
other  matters.  Love,  for  him,  lay  not  in 
flesh  and  blood  alone;  rather,  in  what  flesh 
and  blood  signified  in  another  clay,  not 
Messer  Domeneddio's,  but  his  own  chosen 
task-stuff.  He  had  come  hither  to  Prato 
on  the  commission  of  the  Opera,  to  work 
a  Madonna  col  bambino  for  the  great  door 
Of  the  Duomo.  Well !  he  had  his  Madonna 
to  hand,  it  would  seem:  —  Mariota  at  the 
door  of  the  smith's  house,  confident,  lis- 
som and  fresh,  and  the  lusty  child  groping 
for  his  breakfast.  The  light  had  been  upon 
her,  gleamed  upon  her  skin,  her  brimming 
eyes,  her  glossy  brown  hair.  What  a 
bravery  was  hers  !  What  a  glorified  pre- 
sentment of  young  life,  new-budded,  was 
here  !  The  town  gaped,  the  husband  ad- 
mired ;  but  Mariota,  with  her  square  chin 
and  high  carriage,  looked  as  straightly  be- 
fore her,  when  in  pale  blue  and  silver- 
white,  Madonna  with  the  Babe  and  the 
holy  deacons  Stephen  and  Laurence  stood, 
four  months  afterwards,  within  the  shadow 
of  the  great  church,  and  shone  out  to  the 
day. 

I  pay  silent  respect  to  strapping  Mariota 
and  her  baby-boy  in  the  country  of  Boccace. 
164 


ILARIA,  MARIOTA,  BETTINA 


Then,  when  I  am  in  Florence  again,  under 
the  spell  of  the  city  life,  I  lounge  in  the 
Borg'  Ognissanti,  or  across  Arno  in  the 
qtiartiere  San  Niccolo,  or  out  by  San  Fre- 
diano  where  Botticelli  in  his  green  old  age 
pruned  his  vines,  or  in  the  pent  streets  be- 
tween the  Via  della  Per- 
gola and  Santa  Croce, 
and  watch  the  townsfolk  y.-  ,> 
lead  their  lives  of  patch-  \^t.  f^ 
work  and  easy 
laughter.  1  fear  I 
have  a  taste  for  such 
company.  lam  fond 
of  verdure;  I  like 
trees  as  well  as  men : 
every  oak 
for  me  has 
its  hamad- 
ryad inform- 
ing it.  I  like 
flowers  bet-  |i  >d  -  , 
t  e  r  t  h  a  n  ^1  \,.^^^  . ., 
men ; and 
the  most 
beautiful 
fl  o  w  e  r  I 
know  is  a 


165 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

girl.  I  have  a  sweetheart  in  the  Bargello,  as 
you  shall  hear.  1  believe  she  is  one  of  Dona- 
tello's  sowing  ;  but  the  critics  are  divided. 
1  cannot  trace  Verocchio's  bluntened  linea- 
ments in  her,  nor  Mino's  peaksomeness, 
nor  anything  of  Desiderio.  She 's  not  very 
pretty,  but  she 's  like  a  summer  flower, 
say,  a  campanula  ;  and  that  is  why  I  love 
to  watch  her  and  talk  to  her  in  this  grand- 
fatherly  fashion.  Bettina,  I  say  to  her,  are 
you,  I  wonder,  twelve  years  old  yet  ?  You 
cannot  be  much  more  I  think,  for  you  have 
let  your  bodice-strap  slip  off  one  of  your 
shoulders  and  betray  you  to  the  sun.  You 
are  but  a  round  rosebud  now  and  no  one 
thinks  any  harm  ;  but  some  day  the  sun 
will  look  at  you  in  an  odd  way,  and  then, 
suddenly,  you  will  be  ashamed,  and  draw 
your  frock  right  up  to  your  neck. 

And  your  hair  strays  where  it  likes  at 
present.  I  know  you  have  a  golden  fillet 
of  box-leaves  round  your  brow:  that  is 
because  you  are  only  a  little  girl  still,  not 
more  than  twelve.  And  you  have  tied  the 
ends  up  in  a  sort  of  knot.  But  you  romp 
so  much  and  laugh  so — 1  know  you  have 
two  bright  rows  of  little  teeth — ^that  you 
can   never  expect  to   keep  tidy.      Why, 

i66 


ILARIA,  MARIOTA,  BETTINA 

even  now,  while  I  am  scolding  you,  you 
are  itching  to  laugh  and  run  away.  I  see 
a  wavy  lock  trailing  down  your  neck, 
raga^a,  and  those  heavy  tresses  on  your 
temples,  instead  of  being  drawn  meekly 
back,  droop  down  over  your  temples,  and 
cover  up  your  little  ears.  Don't  you  know 
that  Florentine  ladies  are  proud  of  their 
foreheads,  and  when  they  have  pretty  ears 
always  show  them  }  Some  day,  my  dear, 
you  will  go  out  into  the  world  ;  and  your 
hair  will  be  twisted  up  into  coils  with  gold 
braid;  perhaps  you  will  have  on  it  a 
flowery  garland  of  Messer  Domenico's 
making,  and  a  string  of  Venice  beads  round 
your  throat.  And  when  the  time  comes, 
you  won't  let  the  sun  play  with  your  neck 
any  more  ;  he  won't  know  his  romp  when 
he  sees  her  in  stiff  velvet  of  Genoa  and  a 
high  collar  edged  with  seed-pearls. 

And  you  won't  look  me  in  the  eyes  as 
you  are  doing  now,  saucy  girl,  with  your 
chin  pushed  forward  and  your  mouth  all  in 
a  pucker — who  's  to  know  whether  you  are 
going  to  pout  or  giggle  ? — and  your  pert 
green  eyes  wide  open,  as  if  to  say  "  Who  's 
this  old  thickhead  staring  at  me  so  hard  .^  " 
No,  Bettina,  you  will  drop  them  instead  ; 
£67 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

you  will  blush  all  over  your  neck  and 
cheeks,  and  hang  your  round  head.  You 
have  chestnuts  in  your  two. fists  now  1 
know;  there's  some  of  the  flour  sticking 
to  the  corners  of  your  mouth,  little  slut.  But 
then  you  will  have  a  fan  perhaps,  or  a  spy- 
glass, or  at  least  a  mass-book  in  the  morn- 
ings; and  when  I  am  looking  at  you,  your 
fingers  will  tie  themselves  in  knots  and  be 
very  interesting.  In  two  years'  time,  Bettina ! 

But  though  1  sha'n't  love  you  half  as 
much  as  I  do  now,  1  shall  always  come  to 
see  you  1  think;  and,  as  I  shall  be  a  very 
old  man  by  that  time,  perhaps  you  will  still 
sit  on  a  stool  at  my  knee  and  give  me  a 
kiss  now  and  then  —  oh,  a  mere  bird's 
peck,  just  for  kindness.  .  .  .  The  Via 
de'  Bardi  is  grey,  and  you  are  there  in 
yellow.  You  are  like  a  young  daffodil 
dancing  in  the  winter  grass.  But  soon 
you  will  have  strained  to  your  full  flower- 
time,  and  I  see  you  in  your  summering, 
lithe  and  rather  languid,  with  heavy-lidded 
eyes,  and  a  slow  smile.  Then  you  will 
not  dance;  but,  instead,  you  will  stoop 
gravely  like  a  tall  garden  lily,  and  give  your 
white  hand  to  the  lover  kneeling  below. 

And  all  in  two  years,  my  little  Bettina  ! 

i68 


CATS 

THERE  was  once  a  man  in  Italy — so  the 
story  runs — who  said  that  animals 
were  sacred  because  God  had  made  them. 
People  did  n't  believe  him  for  a  long  time  ; 
they  came,  you  see,  of  a  race  which  had 
found  it  amusing  to  kill  such  things,  and 
killed  a  great  many  of  them  too,  until  it 
struck  them  one  fine  day  that  killing  men 
was  better  sport  still,  and  watching  men 
kill  each  other  the  best  sport  of  all  because 
it  was  the  least  trouble.  Animals  !  said 
they,  why,  how  can  they  be  sacred  ;  things 
that  you  call  beef  and  mutton  when  they 
have  left  off  being  oxen  and  sheep,  and 
sell  for  so  much  a  pound  ?  They  scoffed  at 
this  mad  neighbour,  looked  at  each  other 
waggishly  and  shrugged  their  shoulders  as 
he  passed  along  the  street.  Well  !  then, 
all  of  a  sudden,  as  you  may  say,  one  morn- 
ing he  walked  into  the  town — Gubbio  it 
was — with  a  wolf  pacing  at  his  heels — a 
certain  wolf  which  had  been  the  terror  of 
169 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

the  country-side  and  eaten  I  don't  know 
how  many  children  and  goats.  He  walked 
up  the  main  street  till  he  got  to  the  open 
Piazza  in  front  of  the  great  church.  And 
the  long  grey  wolf  padded  beside  him  with 
a  limp  tongue  lolling  out  between  the 
ragged  palings  which  stood  him  for  teeth. 
In  the  middle  of  the  Piazza  was  a  fountain, 
and  above  the  fountain  a  tall  stone  crucifix. 
Our  friend  mounted  the  steps  of  the  cross 
in  the  alert  way  he  had  (like  a  little  bird, 
the  story  says),  and  the  wolf,  after  lapping 
apologetically  in  the  basin,  followed  him 
up  three  steps  at  a  time.  Then  with  one 
arm  round  the  shaft  to  steady  himself,  he 
made  a  fine  sermon  to  the  neighbours 
crowding  in  the  Square,  and  the  wolf 
stood  with  his  fore-paws  on  the  edge  of 
the  fountain  and  helped  him.  The  sermon 
was  all  about  wolves  (naturally)  and  the 
best  way  of  treating  them.  I  fancy  the 
people  came  to  agree  with  it  in  time;  any- 
how when  the  man  died  they  made  a  saint 
of  him  and  built  three  churches,  one  over 
another,  to  contain  his  body.  And  I  believe 
it  is  entirely  his  fault  that  there  are  a  hun- 
dred-and-three  cats  in  the  convent-garden 
of  San  Lorenzo  in  Florence.  For  what  are 
170 


CATS 

you  to  do  ?  Animals  are  sacred,  says  Saint 
Francis.  Animals  are  sacred,  but  cats  have 
kittens  ;  and  so  it  comes  about  that  the 
people  who  agree  with  Saint  Francis  have 
to  suffer  for  the  people  who  don't. 

The  Canons  of  San  Lorenzo  agree  with 
Saint  Francis,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  they 
must  suffer  a  good  deal.  The  convent  is 
large  ;  it  has  a  great  mildewed  cloister 
with  a  covered-in  walk  all  round  it  built 
on  arches.  In  the  middle  is  a  green  garth 
with  cypresses  and  yews  dotted  about  ; 
and  when  you  look  up  you  see  the  blue 
sky  cut  square,  and  the  hot  tiles  of  a  huge 
dome  staring  up  into  it.  Round  the  cloister 
walk  are  discreet  brown  doors,  and  by  the 
side  of  each  door  a  brass  plate  tells  you 
the  name  and  titles  of  the  Canon  who  lives 
behind  it.  It  is  on  the  principle  of  Dean's 
Yard  at  Westminster  ;  only  here  there  are 
more  Canons — and  more  cats. 

The  Canons  live  under  the  cloister;  the 
cats  live  on  the  green  garth,  and  sometimes 
die  there.  I  did  not  see  much  of  the  Can- 
ons; but  the  cats  seemed  to  me  very  sad — 
depressed,  nostalgic  even,  might  describe 
them,  if  there  had  not  been  something 
more  languid,  something  faded  and  spiritless 

171 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

about  their  habit.  It  was  not  that  they 
quarrelled.  I  heard  none  of  those  long- 
drawn  wails,  gloomy  yet  mellow  soli- 
loquies, with  which  our  cats  usher  in  the 
crescent  moon  or  hymn  her  when  she 
swims  at  the  full:  there  lacked  even  that 
comely  resignation  we  may  see  on  any 
sunny  window-ledge  at  home; — the 
rounded  back  and  neatly  ordered  tail,  the 
immaculate  fore-paws  peering  sedately  be- 
low the  snowy  chest,  the  squeezed-up 
eyes  which  so  resolutely  shut  off  a  bleak 
and  (so  to  say)  unenlightened  world. 
That  is  pensiveness,  sedate,  chastened  mel- 
ancholy; but  it  is  soothing,  it  speaks  a 
philosophy,  and  a  certain  balancing  of 
pleasures  and  pains.  In  San  Lorenzo  clois- 
ter, when  I  looked  in  one  hot  noon  seeking 
a  refuge  from  the  glare  and  white  dust  of 
the  city,  I  was  conscious  of  a  something 
sinister  that  forbade  such  an  even  existence 
for  the  smoothest -tempered  cat.  There 
were  too  many  of  them  for  companionship 
and  perhaps  too  few  for  the  humour  of  the 
thing  to  strike  them:  in  and  out  the  chilly 
shades  they  stalked  gloomily,  hither  and 
thither,  like  lank  and  unquiet  ghosts  of 
starved  cats.  They  were  of  all  colours — 
172 


CATS 

gay  orange-tawny,  tortoiseshell  with  the 
becoming  white  patch  over  one  eye,  deli- 
cate tints  of  grey  and  fawn  and  lavender, 
brindle,  glossy  sable;  and  yet  the  gloom 
and  dampness  of  the  place  seemed  to  mil- 
dew them  all  so  that  their  brightness  was 
glaring  and  their  softest  gradations  took  on 
a  shade  as  of  rusty  mourning.  No  cat 
could  be  expected  to  do  herself  justice. 

To  and  fro  they  paced,  balancing  some- 
times with  hysterical  precision  on  the  ledge 
of  the  parapet,  passing  each  other  at  whis- 
ker's length,  but  cutting  each  other  dead! 
Not  a  cat  had  a  look  or  a  sniff  for  his 
fellow;  not  a  cat  so  much  as  guessed  at  an- 
other's existence.  Among  those  hundred- 
and-three  restless  spirits  there  was  not  a 
cat  but  did  not  affect  to  believe  that  a 
hundred-and-two  were  away  !  It  was 
horrible,  the  inhumanity  of  it.  Here  were 
these  shreds  and  waifs,  these  "  unnecessary 
litters  "  of  Florentine  households,  herded  to- 
gether in  the  only  asylum  (short  of  the  Arno) 
open  to  them,  driven  in  like  dead  leaves 
in  November,  flitting  dismally  round  and 
round  for  a  span,  and  watching  each  other 
die  without  a  mew  or  a  lick  !  Saint  Francis 
was  not  the  wise  man  I  had  thought  him. 

173 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

It  was  about  two  o'clock  in  the  after- 
noon. I  had  watched  these  beasts  at  their 
feverish  exercises  for  nearly  an  hour  before 
I  perceived  that  they  were  gradually  hem- 
ming me  in.  They  seemed  to  be  forming 
up,  in  ranks,  on  the  garth.  Only  a  ditch 
separated  us — I  was  in  the  cloister-walk,  a 
hundred-and-three  gaunt,  expectant,  des- 
perate cats  facing  me.  Their  famished  pale 
eyes  pierced  me  through  and  through;  and 
two-hundred-and-two  hungry  eyes  (four 
cats  supported  life  in  one  apiece)  is  more 
than  I  can  stand,  though  I  am  a  married 
man  with  a  family.  These  brutes  thought 
1  was  going  to  feed  them !  I  was  preparing 
weakly  for  flight  when  I  heard  steps  in  the 
gateway;  a  woman  came  in  with  a  black 
bag.  She  must  be  going  to  deposit  a  cat 
on  Jean-Jacques'  ingenious  plan  of  avoiding 
domestic  trouble ;  it  was  surely  impossible 
she  wanted  to  borrow  one  !  Neither:  she 
came  confidently  in,  beaming  on  our  mad 
fellowship  with  a  pleasant  smile  of  prepara- 
tion. The  cats  knew  her  better  than  I  did. 
Their  suspense  was  really  shocking  to  wit- 
ness. While  she  was  rolling  her  sleeves 
up  and  tying  on  her  apron — she  was  poor, 
evidently,  but  very  neat  and  wholesome  in 

174 


CATS 

her  black  dress  and  the  decent  cap  which 
crowned  her  grey  hair — while  she  unpacked 
the  contents  of  the  bag — two  newspaper 
parcels  full  of  rather  distressing  viands, 
scissors,  and  a  pair  of  gloves  which  had 
done  duty  more  than  once — while  all  these 
preparations  were  soberly  fulfilling,  the 
agitation  of  the  hundred-and-three  was 
desperate  indeed.  The  air  grew  thick,  it 
quivered  with  the  lashing  of  tails;  hoarse 
mews  echoed  along  the  stone  walls,  paws 
were  raised  and  let  fall  with  the  rhythmical 
patter  of  raindrops.  A  furtive  beast  played 
the  thief:  he  was  one  of  the  one-eyed  fra- 
ternity, red  with  mange.  Sdmehow  he 
slipped  in  between  us;  we  discovered  him 
crouched  by  the  newspaper  raking  over 
the  contents.  This  was  no  time  for  cere- 
mony; he  got  a  prompt  cuff  over  the  head 
and  slunk  away  shivering  and  shaking  his 
ears.  And  then  the  distribution  began. 
Now,  your  cat,  at  the  best  of  times,  is 
squeamish  about  his  food;  he  stands  no 
tricks.  He  is  a  slow  eater,  though  he  can 
secure  his  dinner  with  the  best  of  us.  A 
vicious  snatch,  like  a  snake,  and  he  has  it. 
Then  he  spreads  himself  out  to  dispose  of 
the  prey — feet  tucked  well  in,  head  low, 

175 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

tail  laid  close  along,  eyes  shut  fast.  That 
is  how  a  cat  of  breeding  loves  to  dine. 
Alas  !  many  a  day  of  intolerable  prowling, 
many  a  black  vigil,  had  taken  the  polish 
off  the  hundred-and-three.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  they  behaved  abominably:  they  leaped 
at  the  scraps,  they  clawed  at  them  in  the 
air,  they  bolted  them  whole  with  starting 
eyes  and  portentous  gulpings,  they  growled 
all  the  while  with  the  smothered  ferocity 
of  thunder  in  the  hills.  No  waiting  of 
turns,  no  licking  of  lips  and  moustaches  to 
get  the  lingering  flavours,  no  dalliance. 
They  were  as  restless  and  suspicious  here 
as  everywhere;  their  feast  was  the  horrid 
hasty  orgy  of  ghouls  in  a  churchyard. 

But  an  even  distribution  was  made:  I 
don't  think  any  one  got  more  than  his 
share.  Of  course  there  were  underhand 
attempts  in  plenty  and,  at  least  once,  open 
violence — a  sudden  rush  from  opposite 
sides,  a  growling  and  spitting  like  sparks 
from  a  smithy;  and  then,  with  ears  laid 
flat,  two  ill-favoured  beasts  clawed  blindly 
at  each  other,  and  a  sly  and  tigerish  brindle 
made  away  with  the  morsel.  My  woman 
took  the  thing  very  coolly  I  thought,  served 
them  all  alike,  and  did  n't  resent  (as  I 
176 


CATS 

should  have  done)  the  unfortunate  want  of 
delicacy  there  was  about  these  vagrants. 
A  cat  that  takes  your  food  and  growls  at 
you  for  the  favour,  a  cat  that  would  eat 
you  if  he  dared,  is  a  pretty  revelation,  (^a 
donne  fiirieusement  a  penser.  It  gives  you 
a  suspicion  of  just  how  far  the  polish  we 
most  of  us  smirk  over  will  go.  My  cats  at 
San  Lorenzo  knew  some  few  moments  of 
peace  between  two  and  three  in  the  after- 
noon. That  would  have  been  the  time 
to  get  up  a  testimonial  to  the  kind  soul 
who  fed  them.  Try  them  at  five  and 
they  would  ignore  you.  But  try  them  next 
morning  ! 

My  knowledge  of  the  Italian  tongue,  in 
those  days,  was  severely  limited  to  the 
necessaries  of  existence  ;  to  try  me  on  a 
fancy  subject,  like  cats,  was  to  strike  me 
dumb.  But  at  this  stage  of  our  intercourse 
(hitherto  confined  to  smiles  and  eye- 
service)  it  became  so  evident  my  com- 
panion had  something  to  say  that  I  must 
perforce  take  my  hat  off  and  stand  attent- 
ive. She  pointed  to  the  middle  of  the  garth, 
and  there,  under  the  boughs  of  a  shrub,  I 
saw  the  hundred-and-fourth  cat,  sorriest 
of  them  all.     It  was  a  new-comer,  she  told 

12 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

me,  and  shy.  Shy  it  certainly  was,  poor 
wretch  ;  it  glowered  upon  me  from  under 
the  branches  like  a  bad  conscience.  Shy- 
ness could  not  hide  hunger — I  never  saw 
hungrier  eyes  than  hers — but  it  could  hold 
it  in  check:  the  silkiest  speech  could  not 
tempt  her  out,  and  when  we  threw  pieces 
she  only  winced  !  What  was  to  be  done 
next  was  my  work.  Plain  duty  called  me 
to  scale  the  ditch  with  some  of  those  drip- 
ping, slippery,  nameless  cates  in  my  fin- 
gers and  to  approach  the  stranger  where 
she  lurked  bodeful  under  her  tree.  My 
passage  towards  her  lay  over  the  rank 
vegetation  of  the  garth,  in  whose  coarse 
herbage  here  and  there  I  stumbled  upon  a 
limp  white  form  stretched  out — a  waif  the 
less  in  the  world  !  1  don't  say  it  was  a 
happy  passage  for  me  :  it  was  made  to 
the  visible  consternation  of  her  I  wished 
to  befriend.  Her  piteous  yellow  eyes 
searched  mine  for  sympathy  ;  she  wanted 
to  tell  me  something  and  1  would  n't  under- 
stand !  As  I  neared  her  she  shivered  and 
mewed  twice.  Then  she  limped  painfully 
off — poor  soul,  she  had  but  three  feet  ! — 
to  another  tree,  leaving  behind  her,  un- 
willingly   enough,    a    much-licked     dead 

178 


CATS 

kitten.  That  was  what  she  wanted  to  tell 
me  then.  As  I  was  there,  I  deposited  the 
garbage  by  the  side  of  the  little  corpse, 
knowing  she  would  resume  her  watch, 
and  retired.  My  friend  who  had  put  up 
her  parcels  was  prepared  to  go.  She 
thanked  me  with  a  smile  as  she  went  out, 
looking  carefully  round  lest  she  had  missed 
out  some  other  night-birds. 

One  of  the  Canons  had  come  out  of  his 
door  and  was  leaning  against  the  lintel, 
thoughtfully  rubbing  his  chin.  He  was  a 
spare  dry  man  who  seemed  to  have  meas- 
ured life  and  found  it  a  childish  business. 
He  jerked  his  head  towards  the  gateway 
as  he  glanced  at  me.  "That  is  a  good 
woman,"  he  said  in  French,  *'shelendeth 
unto  the  Lord.  .  .  .  Yes,"  he  went 
on,  nodding  his  head  slowly  backwards 
and  forwards,  "lends  Him  something  every 
day."  The  cats  were  sitting  in  the  shady 
cloister-garth  licking  their  whiskers  :  one 
was  actually  cleaning  his  paw.  1  went  out 
into  the  sun  thinking  of  Saint  Francis  and 
his  wolf. 


179 


XI 

THE  SOUL  OF  A  CITY 

HE  hated  Marco  first  of  all  because  one 
day  he  undersold  him  in  the  Campo, 
put  him  to  shame  in  open  market.  Figs 
were  going  cheap  that  October  in  spite  of 
the  waning  year  ;  but  there  was  no  earthly 
reason  why  he  should  give  the  English 
ladies  more  than  four  for  two  soldi.  What 
were  soldi  to  English  people  ?  The  scratch 
of  a  flea  !  He  would  have  given  them  a 
handful,  taken  as  they  came,  for  their  piece 
of  citiquanta,  and  reaped  a  tidy  little  profit 
for  himself  Who  would  have  been  the 
worse  ?  God  knew  he  needed  it.  Mariola 
crumpled  with  the  ague  like  a  dried  leaf, 
and  that  long  girl  of  his  growing  up  so  fast, 
and  still  running  wild  with  goat-herds  and 
marble  quarrymen.  How  could  he  send 
her  to  the  nuns  for  a  place  unless  he  bought 
her  some  shoes  and  a  rosary  ?  And  then 
that  pig  Marco — thieving  old  miser — peered 
forward  with  his  mock  candour  and  silver- 
rimmed  goggles   and  offered   ten  for  two 

i8o 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  CITY 

soldi — ten  !  with  the  market  price,  Dio 
mio,  at  twelve  !  And  Jichi  totati  too  !  Do 
you  wonder  that  the  ladies  in  striped 
blankets  gave  the  cheek  to  Maso  Cecci  and 
turned  to  Marco  Zoppa  ? 

That  was  n't  all,  but  it  was  an  accentua- 
tion of  a  long  series  of  spiteful  injuries 
wrought  him  by  the  wrinkled  old  villain. 
Maso  endured,  hating  the  old  man  daily 
more  and  more  ;  tried  little  tricks,  little 
revenges,  upon  him,  upset  his  baskets,  hid 
his  pipe  ;  but  they  generally  failed  or  re- 
coiled with  a  nasty  swiftness  upon  himself. 
He  only  got  deeper  and  deeper  into  the 
bad  odour  of  the  neighbours  who  traded 
in  the  Piazza  with  fruit  and  indifferent 
photographs.  Nothing  went  very  well — 
thanks  to  that  unspeakable  old  Marco!  His 
girl  grew  longer  and  lazier  and  handsomer, 
with  a  shapelier  bust  and  a  pair  of  arms 
like  that  snaky  Bacchante  in  the  Opera. 
Maso  had  to  quail  more  than  he  liked  to 
admit  before  the  proud  stare  of  her  eyes; 
and  when  she  dropped  the  heavy  lids  upon 
them  and  sauntered  away,  arms  akimbo 
under  her  shawl,  he  could  only  swear. 
And  he  always  cursed  Marco  Zoppa,  who 
gave  her  chestnuts  and  sage  counsel   for 

i8i 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

nothing.  God  only  knew  what  devilry  he 
might  be  whispering  to  her  in  the  shady 
corner  where  the  sun  never  came  and  the 
grass  sprouted  between  the  flags — she 
leaning  against  the  wall,  looking  down  at 
her  toes,  and  he  peering  keen-eyed  into  her 
face  and  muttering  in  his  beard,  sometimes 
laying  an  old  brown  hand  on  her  shoulder 
— Lord !  he  did  hate  the  man. 

Then  came  the  August  races. 

Maso  had  brought  his  Isotta  into  the  city 
to  see  the  fun  and  she  had  disappeared  in 
the  press  just  before  the  procession  stayed 
by  the  Palazzo  and  the  trumpets  sounded 
for  the  first  race.  Maso  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  cursed  his  luck,  but  did  n't 
budge.  The  girl  must  look  after  herself. 
He  was  on  the  upper  rim  of  the  great 
fountain  craning  his  neck  over  the  pack  of 
people:  then  he  got  a  dig  under  the  ribs 
enough  to  take  the  breath  of  an  ox.  It  was 
the  spout  of  old  Marco's  green  umbrella. 
''  Hey!  silly  fool,"  spluttered  the  old  liar, 
"dost  want  that  loose-legged  slut  of  thine 
in  trouble  }  1  tell  thee  she  's  playing  in  a 
corner  with  Carlo  Formaggia.  Already  he  's 
pinched  her  cheek  twice,  and  who  knows 
what  the  end  may  be  ?  Mud-coloured 
182 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  CITY 

ass,  wilt  thou  let  they  child  slip  to  the 
devil  while  thou  standest  gaping  at  a  horse- 
race ? "  And  this  before  all  the  neigh- 
bours !  What  to  say  to  such  a  man  ? 
Maso  babbled  with  rage  ;  but  he  had  to  go, 
for  Carlo  Formaggia  was  well  known.  He 
had  ruined  more  girls  than  enough  ;  he 
was  in  league  with  vile  houses,  gambling 
dens,  thieves'  hells  ;  Captain  of  an  infamous 
secret  society  ;  the  police  were  only  wait- 
ing for  a  pretext  to  get  him  shipped  off  to 
the  hulks.  He  must  go  of  course.  No 
thanks  to  Marco  though  :  in  fact  he  hated 
him  worse  than  ever,  partly  because  he  had 
drawn  all  eyes  and  a  fair  share  of  snigger- 
ing and  tongues  thrust  in  the  cheek  upon 
his  account  ;  but  most  because  he  knew  he 
had  been  trapped  into  losing  a  good  place. 
For,  as  he  mounted  the  narrow  stair  cut 
between  old  houses  steep  as  rocks,  he 
turned  and  saw  Zoppa  placidly  smoking  his 
pipe  in  the  very  spot  he  had  held,  squatted 
on  the  fountain-rim  with  his  green  umbrella 
between  his  knees.  He  was  beaming 
through  his  spectacles,  in  a  fatherly,  in- 
dulgent sort  of  way,  upon  the  shouting 
people  ;  following  the  race  too,  like  one 
who  had  paid  for  his  box.     Maso,  when 

1S3 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

he  heard  the  shatter  of  hoofs  and  the  wild 
roar  from  thousands  of  throats  down  below 
him  in  the  Campo,  cursed  old  Zoppa  with  a 
grey  face,  and  went  muttering  round  the 
blinding  sides  of  the  Duomo  to  find  his 
daughter.  And  when  he  did  find  her  she 
was  eating  chestnuts  at  the  open  door  of  her 
aunt's  shop  in  the  Via  Ghibellina  !  Bacchus ! 
she  was  sick  of  all  those  folk  in  their  festa 
clothes,  was  all  the  explanation  she  would 
give  him  from  between  fine  white  teeth  all 
clogged  with  chestnut-meal.  If  he  chose 
to  dress  his  daughter  like  a  beggar's  brat 
he  had  better  not  take  her  to  the  races. 
Maso's  feeling  of  relief  at  finding  her  alone 
and  looking  her  usual  sulky  impassive  self 
gave  way  very  rapidly  to  a  sort  of  right- 
eous wrath  against  his  triumphant  enemy. 
So,  by  foul  slanders  of  honest.  God-fearing 
people  that  old  Jew  had  not  scrupled  to 
rob  him  of  his  place  !  His  place  and  his 
day's  fun.  By  Heaven,  he  was  tricked, 
duped  by  a  scaly-eyed  Jew  pedlar,  a  vile 
old  dog  tottering  down  to  Hell  with  lies  in 
his  beard.  Well  !  he  would  put  this 
morning's  work  down  to  his  score  ;  some 
day  there  would  be  a  choice  little  reckoning 
for  Ser  Marco. 

184 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  CITY 

Maso,  green  with  impotent  fury,  poured 
out  his  flood  of  gutturals  upon  his  insouci- 
ante  child.  General  reproaches  were  always 
a  failure  in  cases  of  this  sort.  Some  were 
sure  to  be  wild  guess-work  and  to  drown 
the  real  ones  :  you  could  never  tell  when 
you  had  hit  the  mark.  Had  she  not — she 
fourteen,  too  ! — slid  astride  down  the  rail- 
ing into  the  Campo  and  been  caught  up  in 
the  arms  of  Carlo  Formaggia  waiting  and 
laughing  at  the  bottom  ?  Had  she  not  lain 
a  whole  minute  in  his  arms,  panting.? 
And  then,  'Dio  mio,  with  the  sweat  still  on 
her  forehead,  she  had  slipped  off  to  San 
Domenico  and  confessed  to  coughing  at 
mass  the  Sunday  before  !  Pest !  he  would 
give  her  the  strap  over  her  shoulders  when 
he  got  her  home.  The  long,  brown  girl 
leaned  against  the  lintel  kicking  one  heel 
idly  against  the  other.  She  was  smiling  at 
him,  smiling  with  her  lazy,  languid  eyes 
and  with  her  glistening  teeth.  Every  now 
and  then  she  inspected  a  chestnut  critically 
— like  an  amateur  ! — and  slipped  it  between 
her  jaws.  They  split  it  like  a  banana. 
And  then  she  squeezed  the  half  skins  and 
dropped  the  flour  down  her  throat.  She 
had  a  long  sinewy  throat,  glossy  as  velvet, 

185 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

with  its  silvery  lights  and  dusky  brown 
shadows.  Maso  stood  helpless  before  her 
as  she  drank  down  her  flour  ;  he  chattered 
like  a  little  passionate  ape.  At  last  he  lifted 
up  both  hands  in  a  sudden  frenzy  of  despair 
and  went  away. 

Of  course  the  races  were  over.  The 
sober  streets  swarmed  with  people  in  their 
holiday  clothes.  They  all  seemed  laughing 
and  smoking,  and  talking  fluently  of  some- 
thing ridiculous.  Maso,  egoist,  knew  it 
must  be  about  him — or  his  daughter. 
Arms  and  heads  went  like  mill-sails  or  tall 
trees  in  a  gale  of  wind.  Then,  with  a 
rattle  and  the  sudden  sliding  of  four  hoofs 
on  the  flags,  a  cart  would  be  in  the  thick 
of  them,  and  the  people  scoured  to  the 
curb,  still  laughing,  or  spitting  between  the 
spasms  of  the  interrupted  jest.  The  boys 
tried  to  peep  under  the  sagging  hats  of  the 
girls,  and  the  girls  turned  pettish  shoulders 
to  them  and,  as  they  turned,  you  caught 
the  glint  of  fun  in  their  great  roes'  eyes 
and  saw  the  lips  part  before  the  quick 
breath.  The  streets  were  mere  gullies, 
clefts  hewn  in  zig-zag  between  grey  houses 
that  tottered  up  and  up,  and  lay  over  them 
like  cliffs.     An  ancient  church  with  bleached 

1 86 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  CITY 

Stone  saints  under  flowery  canopies,  a 
guttering  candle  before  a  tinsel  shrine,  and 
the  hoai;se  babel  of  the  streets — whips  that 
cracked  and  spluttered  like  squibs,  a  swarm- 
ing coloured  stream  of  men  and  maids,  once 
the  twang  of  a  chance  mandoline.  Siena 
was  feasting,  and  the  waiters  furtively 
swept  their  foreheads  with  their  coatsleeves 
as  they  ran  in  and  out  of  the  traitorie. 

In  the  trattoria  of  the  Aquila  Rossa  old 
Marco  Zoppa  smoked  his  pipe  and  talked, 
between  the  spurts  of  smoke,  to  his  neigh- 
bours. Fate  brought  him  face  to  face  with 
two  enemies  at  once.  Maso  was  battling 
his  way  up  the  street,  white  and  strained 
as  a  grave-cloth  ;  and  Carlo  Formaggia, 
the  approved  bravo — oiled  and  jaunty,  with 
his  brown  felt  fantastically  rolled  and  stuck 
over  one  ear,  with  a  long  cigar  which  he 
alternately  gnawed  and  sucked,  Carlo  the 
broad-chested,  of  the  seared,  evil  face, 
came  down  with  the  stream  on  the  arms 
of  two  other  gilded  youths.  They  met 
before  the  cafe,  the  man  of  intolerable 
wrongs  and  the  Pilia-Borsa  of  Siena.  Maso 
scowled  till  his  thick  eyebrows  cut  his  face 
horizontally  in  two.  He  stood  ostenta- 
tiously still,  muttering  with  his  lips  as  the 

187 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

trio  went  lightly  by.  Then  he  made  to  go 
on.  But  old  Marco  Zoppa  stood  up  and 
made  a  speech.  He  had  the  wooden  stem 
of  his  pipe  'twixt  finger  and  thumb,  and 
used  it  like  a  conductor's  baton  to  empha- 
sise his  points.  As  his  voice  shrilled  and 
quavered,  Carlo  Formaggia  caught  his  own 
name  and  turned  back  to  listen,  prick- 
eared.  He  stood  out  of  sight  resting  one 
foot  on  a  doorstep,  and  leaned  forward 
on  to  his  leg.  He  might  have  been  dream- 
ing of  some  night  of  love,  but  he  held 
every  word  as  it  dropped. 

"  Maso,"  Marco  went  on,  "thou  art  but 
a  thin  fool.  '  I  know  what  I  know  ;  but 
thou  must  needs  stick  dirt  in  thine  ears 
and  pass  me  by.  Well,  let  be,  let  be  ;  the 
end  will  come  soon  enough — this  night  even. 
And  I  have  warned  thee." 

"Spawn  of  a  pig,  wilt  never  have  done 
irking  me  .^  See,  I  scratch  thee  off  me  !  " 
Maso  drove  home  his  gibe  with  a  dramatic 
performance.  The  trattoria  was  agape. 
Every  table  held  its  three  craning  necks 
and  six  piercing,  twinkling  eyes  atop. 

"  1  grow  old,  my  Maso,  1  grow  very  old, 
and  thy  monkey's  tricks  are  nought.  T  is 
thy   slip   of  a   girl   and  thy   poor  twisted 

i88 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  CITY 

Mariola  I  would  save  in  spite  of  thee. 
Listen  then  once  more,  and  for  the  last 
time.  Ser  Carlo  intends  to  snare  thy 
pigeon.  He  has  limed  his  twigs  ;  the  bird 
flutters  free  for  this  noon,  but  by  to- 
night she  will  be  caged.  For  me,  1  have 
done  my  possible — but  I  am  old.  Life 
tingles  fiercer  in  the  blood  of  a  young 
man.  Therefore  beware.  Wilt  thou  see 
that  brawny  assassin  toying  with  thy  girl  ; 
leaning  over  her  where  she  crouches,  poi- 
soning her  with  fat  words  ?  That 's  how 
the  snake  licks  the  turtle  before  he  gulps 
her — 'tis  to  make  her  sleek,  look  you  ! 
Well,  go  thy  way,  dolt  and  blunderhead. 
For  me — old  as  1  am — 1  will  shoot  a  last 
bolt  for  Mariola.  This  very  night  after 
supper  I  go  to  the  Sbirro  :  and  thy  thanks 
will  be  a  rounder  oath  and  some  more 
knave's  tricks  with  my  baskets." 

**No  thanks  are  owing,  Marco  Zoppa"; 
Maso  was  ashy  with  shame  and  rage  at  the 
old  man's  placid  benevolence.  "Marco 
Zoppa,  thou  hast  been  my  enemy  ever,  and 
I  have  borne  it  " — the  Cafe  roared  with 
laughter;  a  fat  old  Capuchin  nearly  had  a 
fit.  Maso  looked  round  with  fright  in  his 
eyes.      He    went    on,    "Now    thou   hast 

i8g 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

gone  too  far — insulting  me  grossly  before 
these  citizens.  Thou  hast  brought  thine 
end  upon  thyself."  He  ran  away  fighting 
through  the  delighted  crowd.  Everybody 
who  could  get  at  him  slapped  him  on  the 
back.     A  big  carter  stove  his  hat  in. 

Old  Marco  shrugged  his  patient  shoul- 
ders and  sat  down  to  read  the  Secolo.  He 
balanced  his  silver-rimmed  spectacles  on 
his  nose  and  held  the  journal  at  arm's 
length  with  hand  a  thought  more  shaky, 
perhaps,  than  usual.  Presently  he  looked 
up:  ''  Mother  of  God  !  what  a  white-faced 
rogue  it  is  !  Eh,  Giuseppe  ?"  "  By  Mars, 
if  looks  could  stab,  thou  hadst  been  riddled 
by  the  knife  before  this,"  said  his  friend. 
Marco  shrugged  and  went  on  reading — he 
was  an  old  man. 

But  when  Carlo  Formaggia  had  heard 
the  debate,  he  turned  a  shade  shinier,  and 
his  eyes  harder  and  brighter.  As  he  mo- 
tioned his  friends  off  with  a  look,  he  swal- 
lowed something  hard  in  his  throat.  Then 
he  turned  down  the  first  side  street, 
doubled  round  to  the  right,  turned  to  the 
left  down  a  kind  of  black  sewer-trap  and 
let  himself  into  a  wine-shop  where  he  sat 
down,  breathing  short.      He  drank  brandy 

iqo 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  CITY 

— but  he  drank  like  a  machine.  The  mus- 
cles of  his  jaw  were  working' spasmodically 
as  he  sat  rigid  on  a  tub,  leaning  against  the 
counter.  And  he  fingered  something  at 
his  belt.  His  eyes  were  in  a  cold  stare:  he 
saw  nothing  and  did  n't  move.  But  he 
went  on  drinking  brandy  till  late  in  the  af- 
ternoon, till  the  Hail  Mary  bells  began  to 
sound  a  tinkling  chorus  through  the  still  air. 
And  Maso  Cecci,  he  too,  rushed  away 
white  and  chattering.  Rage  had  past 
definition  with  him,  he  saw  things  red,  and 
they  choked  him.  The  air  felt  thick  to 
him,  full  of  flies.  He  brushed  his  hands 
before  his  face,  struck  out  vaguely,  and 
swore  as  the  dazzling  black  things  settled 
round  him  again  in  a  swarm.  Irritated, 
maddened  as  he  was,  he  still  heard  the  de- 
risive yells  of  the  crowd  at  the  birreria  and 
saw  Marco's  calm  wise  old  face  smiling 
urbanely  behind  silver  spectacles.  Crista 
amore!  how  he  loathed  that  old  man. 
Siena  could  never  hold  the  pair  of  them  : 
there  must  be  an  end — there  should  be  an 
end.  His  heart  gave  a  jerk  under  his  vest 
as  he  thought  of  it.  An  end  ! — an  end  of 
his  eternal  fretting  jealousy  in  the  Campo, 
his  continued  sense  of  being  worsted,  of 

igi 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

galling  inferiority  to  that  methodical  old 
villain.  An  end  of  his  worries  about 
Isotta;  an  end — ah  !  but  there  would  be 
something  rarer  than  that  ?  To  a  man  like 
Maso,  a  small  man,  of  immoderate  self- 
esteem,  and  that  self-esteem  always  on 
the  smart,  there  is  another  satisfaction — 
that  of  seeing  the  better  man  totter  and 
slip  forward  to  his  knees.  This  insuffer- 
able old  Marco  who  was  always  so  right, 
with  his  slow  methods  and  accursed  ac- 
curacy— to  see  him  stumble  and  drop  ! 
That  was  what  made  Maso's  heart  flutter 
and  thud  against  his  skin.  And  then, 
as  he  thought  of  it,  it  seemed  inevita- 
ble. It  could  be  done  in  a  minute,  via! 
The  old  man  was  alone — it  would  be  dusk 
— he  would  peer  forward  through  the 
gloom  to  open  the  door  and — Madre  di 
Dio! — and  then  !  Maso  was  sweating; 
the  back  of  his  palate  itched  intolerably; 
something  hot  and  sticky  clogged  his 
mouth  and  glued  his  tongue  against  the 
roof  of  it.  His  knees  shook  so  that  he 
could  scarcely  walk.  Some  little  boys 
stood  to  stare  at  him  as  he  lurched  by,  and 
laughed  stealthily  to  see  the  hated  Maso 
tipsy.  But  Maso  was  unconscious  of  all 
192 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  CITY 

this:  he  staggered  on  homewards  with 
scorching  eyes.     .     .     . 

Old  Marco  lived  down  beyond  the  Rail- 
way Station — a  room  in  a  crazy  block  of 
buildings  that  had  been  run  up  for  the 
needs  of  the  factory  hands.  It  was  like  a 
great  smooth  cliff,  this  block,  and  was 
washed  over  a  raw  pink,  but  it  glowed  in 
the  setting  sun  that  evening,  like  the  city 
herself  and  all  the  hills,  the  colour  of  bright 
blood.  As  Maso  neared  its  blind  face, 
stepping  warily  with  outstretched  neck  like 
some  obscene  bird,  and  with  one  hand  un- 
der his  coat — the  sun  was  going  down  into 
a  purple  bank  of  cloud.  He  gilded  the 
edges  as  he  sank  and  shot  broad  rays  of 
crimson  light  up  into  the  green  sky.  Here 
and  there  a  star  twinkled  faint  ;  the  city 
lay  over  him  like  a  cloudy,  silent  company 
of  rocks  ;  the  tower  of  the  Palazzo  ran  up 
into  the  pallor  of  the  sky,  a  shaking  spear. 

There  was  but  one  glimmer  of  light  in 
the  whole  ghostly  wall  of  tenements  and 
that,  Maso  knew,  was  Marco  Zoppa's. 
Every  soul  else  was  crowded  in  the  Campo 
waiting  for  the  fireworks.  And,  as  he 
thought,  he  heard  a  dull  thud  behind  him, 
and  turned  ;   and  there,  far  up,  a  single 

193 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY.- 

shaft  of  flame  shot  aloft,  and  stayed,  and 
burst  into  a  fan  of  lights  ;  and  a  puff  told 
him  it  was  the  first  rocket.  "Ecco!  Madre 
di  Dio,  a.  sign  !  a  sign  !  So  will  /  go  up  ; 
and  so  shall  my  enemy  come  down."  And 
Maso  crept  up  the  stairway  breathing  thick 
and  short.     .     .     . 

With  a  hand  still  under  his  cloak  he 
rapped  his  knuckles  on  the  door.  No 
answer.  An  echo,  only,  fluttered  and  grew 
faint  down  the  stone  steps.  He  hoisted 
his  cloak  from  the  shoulder  and  swung  his 
right  arm  free.  Then  he  knocked  again. 
Nothing.  No  sign.  Heavy  silence  ;  only 
a  distant  murmur  of  voices,  muffled  and 
infinitely  far,  from  the  Campo  on  the  hill. 

*'The  game  has  flown  !  Or  the  old  dog 
sleeps."  Maso  sighed,  for  he  wanted  to 
see  him  drop  gurgling  to  his  knees.  Still, 
it  made  his  affair  easier.  He  gave  one 
fierce  hoist  to  his  cloak,  twitched  his  right 
arm  once  or  twice,  and  gently  turned  the 
handle.  Then  he  stepped  lightly  and  dain- 
tily into  the  room. 

A  candle  guttered  on  a  little  table  in  the 
corner,  and  the  Crucified  showed  white 
upon  the  black  cross  above.  Marco  Zoppa 
lay  on  his  bed  with  his  throat  cut  from  ear 

194 


THE  SOUL  OF  A  CITY 

to  ear.  The  cut  was  so  resolute  that  his 
head  stuck  out  at  an  angle  from  his  body — 
almost  a  right  angle  ;  and  in  some  struggle 
he  had  got  his  nostril  sliced.  That  gave 
him  an  odd,  mesquin  expression,  lying 
there  with  his  mouth  open  and  his  yawn- 
ing nostril,  as  if  he  wanted  to  sneeze.  The 
room  smelt  stale  and  sour  ;  the  thick  air 
gathered  in  a  misty  halo  round  the  candle, 
and  a  fat  shroud  of  tallow  drooped  over  the 
edges  of  the  candlestick. 

Maso  dropped  his  long,  clean  knife  ; 
dropped  on  to  his  knees  and  wailed  like  a 
chained  dog.  He  could  not  take  his  eyes 
from  the  horrible  black  pit  between  the 
dead  man's  chin  and  trunk.  Out  of  that 
pit  a  thin  scarlet  stream  was  still  slipping 
lazily,  and  crawling  down  the  white  cover- 
let to  the  floor.  Maso's  wailing  attracted 
a  dog  near  by.  He  too  set  off  howling 
from  behind  his  door  :  and  then  another, 
and  another.  There  was  a  chorus  of  howls, 
long-drawn,  pitiful,  desolate  ;  and  Maso, 
the  only  man  in  that  woeful  company, 
howled  like  any  dog  of  the  pack. 

Gradually  his  moaning  sank  and  then 
stopped  with  a  dry  sob.  He  crawled  on 
his   knees  a   little   nearer  to  the  bed  and 

195 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

eyed  fearfully  a  patch  of  blood  on  the 
counterpane.  Just  God  !  what  was  that 
patch  ?  A  faint  circle  smeared  with  the 
finger,  and  through  the  midst  of  it  a  ragged 
dart.  Carlo  Formaggia  had  been  there  ! 
He  knew  that  mark  !  And  then  the  whole 
truth  blazed  before  him  like  a  sheet  of  fire. 
He  fell  forward  on  his  face.  The  thin 
thread  of  scarlet  from  Marco  Zoppa's  gap- 
ing throat  crawled  drop  by  drop  on  to  his 
shoulder. 
Carlo  Formaggia  had  limed  his  bird. 


196 


XII 

WITH  THE  BROWN  BEAR 

THE  secret  of  happy  travelling  is  con- 
trast. Suffer,  that  you  may  drowse 
thereafter  :  grill,  that  you  may  have  a  heat 
on  you  worth  assuagement.  Wherefore, 
to  the  Italian  wanderer,  it  will  be  worth 
while  to  endure  the  fierceness  of  the  Lom- 
bard plain,  even  the  gilded  roodernisms  of 
Milan  (blistering  though  they  may  be  under 
the  stroke  of  the  naked  sun)  and  the  dusty, 
painful  traverse  of  the  Apennines,  to  drop 
down  at  last  into  the  broad  green  peace  of 
the  Val  d'Arno.  Take,  however,  the  first 
halting-place  you  can.  You  will  find  your- 
self in  a  hollow  of  the  hills,  helping  the 
brown  bear  of  Pistoja  keep  the  Northern 
gates  of  Tuscany.  It  is  not  unlikely  that 
the  Apennine  may  "  walk  abroad  with  the 
storm,  "'or  hide  his  moss-brown  slopes  in 
great  sheets  of  mist.  This,  while  it  means 
a  fine  sight,  means  also  rain  for  Pistoja. 
A  quiet  rain  will  accordingly  fall  upon  the 
little  city,  gently  but   persistently.      Only 

197 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

in  the  gleams  may  you  guess  that  you  have 
the  Tuscan  sky  over  you  and  the  smiling 
Tuscan  Art  round  about.  But  the  ways  of 
the  Pistolesi  will  confirm  the  feeble  knees  : 
such  at  least  was  my  case. 

For  the  Pistolesi  were  there  besides  foul 
weather,  and  splashed  about  under  green 
umbrellas  with  prodigious  jokes  to  cut  at 
each  other's  expense,  of  a  sort  we  reserve 
for  Spring  or  early  June.  For  them,  with 
a  vintage  none  too  good  to  be  garnered,  it 
might  have  been  the  finest  weather  in  the 
world  ;  but  I  am  bound  to  add  my  belief 
that  they  would  have  laughed  were  it  the 
worst.  With  no  money,  no  weather,  and 
taxes  intolerable,  Pistoja  laughed  and  looked 
handsome.  Was  not  Boccaccio  a  Pistol- 
ese  ?  I  was  reminded  of  his  book  at  every 
turn  of  the  road  :  life  is  a  wanton  story 
there,  or,  say,  a  Masque  of  Green  Things, 
enacted  by  a  splendid  fairy  rout.  They 
were  still  the  well-favoured  race  Dino  Com- 
pagni  described  them  far  back  in  the  four- 
teenth century — ''formati  di  bella  statura 
oltre  a'  Toscani,"  he  says.  The  words 
hold  good  of  their  grandsons — the  men 
leaner  and  longer,  hardier  and  keener  than 
you  find  them  in  Lucca  or  Siena  ;  and  the 

198 


WITH  THE  BROWN  BEAR 

women  carry  their  heads  high,  and  when 
they  smile  at  you  (as  they  will)  you  think 
the  sun  must  be  shining.  They  are  mount- 
aineers, a  strong  race.  At  pallone  one 
day,  I  saw  muscles  "all  a-ripple  down  the 
back,"  arms,  and  shoulders,  which  would 
have  intoxicated  the  great  old  "amatore 
del  persona  "  himself.  For  their  vivacity, 
it  is  racial  ;  1  think  all  Tuscans,  more  or 
less,  retain  the  buoyant  spirits,  the  alertness 
as  of  birds,  which  crowned  Italy  with 
Florence  instead  of  Rome  or  Milan.  Tus- 
can Art  is  a  proof  of  that,  and  Tuscan  Art 
can  be  studied  at  its  roots  in  Pistoja  :  you 
see  there  the  naked  thing  itself  with  none 
of  the  wealth  of  Florence  to  make  the 
head  swim.  If  Florence  had  stopped 
short  at  the  death  of  Giuliano  de'  Medici, 
you  might  say  Pistoja  was  Florence  seen 
through  the  diminishing-glass.  Is  not  that 
ribbed  dome,  with  its  purple  mass  domi- 
neering over  the  huddled  roofs,  Brunel- 
leschi's  }  It  is  a  faithful  copy  of  Vasari's 
hatching  ;  but  no  matter.  So  with  the 
Baptistry,  the  towers,  the  grim  old  cor- 
niced palaces,  the  sdruccioli  and  gloomy 
clefts  which  serve  for  streets.  But  you 
would  be  wrong.  Pisa  is  the  real  parent 
199 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

of  Pistoja,  as  indeed  she  is  of  Florence — 
Dante's  Florence.  Pisa's  magnificent  build- 
ing repeats  too  itself  here  :  Gothic  with 
a  touch  of  Latin  sanity,  a  touch  of  the 
genuine  Paganism  which  loves  the  daedal 
earth  and  cannot  bring  itself  to  be  out  of 
touch  with  it.  San  G'iov3.nn\  fuori-civitas, 
what  a  rock-hewn  church  it  is  !  A  rigid 
oblong,  dark  as  the  twilight,  running  with 
the  street  without  belfry  or  window  or 
facade.  Three  tiers  of  shallow  arcades  on 
spiral  columns,  never  a  window  to  be  seen, 
and  the  whole  of  solemn  black  marble 
narrowly  striped  with  white.  Is  there 
such  a  beast  as  a  black  tiger — a  tiger  where 
the  tawny  and  black  change  places?  San 
Giovanni  is  modelled  after  that  fashion. 
It  is  very  old — ^twelfth  century  at  latest — 
very  shabby  and  weather-beaten,  dusty 
and  deserted.  But  it  will  outlive  Pistoja  ; 
and  that  is  probably  what  Pistoja  desired. 

This  black  and  white,  which  is  so  re- 
miniscent of  early  Florence,  is  carried  out 
with  more  fidelity  to  the  model  in  the 
Piazza.  The  octagonal  Baptistry  is,  no 
doubt,  a  copy  of  Dante's  beloved  church  ; 
but  it  is  much  better  placed,  does  not 
**shun  to  be  admired"  like  its  beautiful 
200 


Church  of  San  Giovanni  Fuorcivitas, 
Pistoia 

Founded  in  the  8th  Century.     Ornamentation  is 
of  the  14th  Century 


^ 


EARTHWr 


ifh 


and   the       '    '       "      .'  -      "  •     '  '  • 

narrowly 


th    - 

C 

It 

1  ' 
mini" 

1 

probab 
)  ^   uiack  and  wi 
scent  of  early  Pk 

much   i 

church  ; 
>es    not 

WITH  THE  BROWN  BEAR 

yellowed  sister.  The  Duomo  is  of  Pisa 
again,  and  has  a  tower,  half  belfry,  half 
fortress,  which  once  the  Podesta  seized 
and  held  while  the  plucky  little  town  en- 
dured a  siege.  The  Brown  Bear  stood  out 
long  against  the  Lily.  But  Lorenzo  showed 
his  teeth:  and  the  Wolf  prevailed  at  last. 
Sculpture  apart,  the  resemblance  to  Florence 
stops  here.  None  of  her  Cinque-cento 
bravery  and  little  of  her  earlier  and  finer 
Renaissance  came  this  way.  But  one  thing 
came;  one  clean  breath  from  "that  solemn 
fifteenth  century  "  did  blow  to  this  verge 
of  Tuscan  soil,  a  breath  from  Luca  della 
Robbia  and  his  men.  They  may  flower 
more  exuberantly  in  Florence,  those  broad, 
blue-eyed  platters  of  theirs  ;  nowhere  is 
their  purpose  more  explicit,  their  charm 
more  exquisitely  appreciable  than  here. 
There  is  a  chance  of  considering  the  art  on 
its  own  merits  ;  better,  you  can  see  it 
more  truly  as  it  was  at  home,  since  Florence 
has  caught  some  little  of  Haussmannism 
and  is  not  as  Luca  left  it.  So  here,  per- 
haps best  of  all,  you  may  try  to  plumb  the 
depths  of  the  Delia  Robbia  soul, — through 
its  purity  and  limpid  candour,  through  its 
shining,    sweetly   wholesome   homeliness. 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

down  to  the  crystal  sincerity  burning  re- 
cessed in  the  shrine.  It  is  the  fashion  to 
say  of  Angelico  da  Fiesole  that  his  was  a 
naivete  which  amounted  to  genius  :  a  thin 
phrase,  which  may  nevertheless  pass  to 
qualify  the  inspired  miniaturist.  The  re- 
ligiosity of  the  Delia  Robbia,  while  no  less 
naive,  is  really  far  other.  It  is  not  Gothic 
at  all,  nor  ascetic,  nor  mystic.  It  would 
be  Latin,  were  it  not  blithe  enough  to  be 
Greek.  It  speaks  of  what  is  and  must  be, 
and  is  well  content  ;  not  of  what  should, 
or  might  be,  if  one  could  but  tear  off  this 
crust.  It  seems  probable  that  it  speaks  as 
pure  a  Paganism — ^just  that  very  Paganism 
which  Pisan  building  represents — as  has 
been  seen  since  the  workmen  of  Tanagra 
fashioned  their  little  clay  familiars  for  the 
tombs,  slim  Greek  girls  in  their  reedy  habit  as 
they  lived,  or  chattering  matrons  like  those 
you  read  of  in  Theocritus.  Much  fine  phras- 
ing has  been  spent  upon  the  effort  to  analyse 
the  aesthetics  of  Delia  Robbia  ware.  Its 
inexhaustible  charm  is  unquestionable;  but 
just  where  does  it  catch  one's  breath  ?  Not 
altogether  in  the  clean  colouring,  like  no- 
thing so  much  as  that  of  a  cool,  glazed  dairy 
at  home, — "milky-blue,"  ** cream-white," 


v.  i  /   / 

1/  / 


GOTHIC    AND    LATIN 


WITH  THE  BROWN  BEAR 

** butter-yellow,"  **  parsley-green,"  all  the 
dairy  names  come  pat  to  pen  ; — not  ne- 
cessarily in  the  sheer,  April  loveliness  of 
form  and  expression,  though  that  would 
count  for  much  ;  nor,  I  believe,  as  Mr. 
Pater  would  have  us  acknowledge,  in  the 
evanescent  delicacy  of  each  motive  and 
sentiment, — the  arresting  of  a  single  sigh, 
a  single  wave  of  desire,  a  single  stave  of 
the  Magnificat.  All  this  is  true,  and  true 
only  of  Luca,  and  yet  the  whole  charm  is 
not  there.  Rather,  I  think,  you  will  find  it 
in  the  fusing  of  humble  material — the  age- 
old  clay  of  the  potter  (of  the  Master-Potter, 
for  that  matter) — and  fine  art,  whereby  the 
wayside  shrine  is  linked  to  the  high  altar, 
Sivxd  contadiiio  and  Vicar-Apostolic  can  hail 
a  common  ideal.  Every  lane,  every  cot- 
tage, has  its  Madonna-shrine  here  ;  lumped 
in  clay  or  daubed  in  raw  colour,  nothing 
i:an  obliterate  the  sweet  sentiment  of  these 
poor  weeds  of  art,  these  tawdry  little  ap- 
peals to  the  better  part  of  us.  Madonna 
cries  with  a  bared  red  heart  ;  she  supports 
a  white  Christ  ;  she  stoops  suave  to  enfold 
a  legion  of  children  in  her  mantle.  She  is 
as  Tuscan  as  the  brownest  of  them  ;  but  a 
Tuscan  of  the  rarest  mould,  they  would 
203 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

have  you  to  see,  of  a  cleanliness  quite  un- 
approachable, of  a  benignity  wholly  divine. 
One  learns  the  secret  of  devotional  art  best 
of  all  in  such  ephemeral  sanctuaries.  And 
since  Fine  Art  is  the  flower  of  these  shabby 
roots,  Italy  only,  where  Cincinnatus  worked 
in  his  garden,  can  furnish  so  wonderful  a 
harmony  of  opposites.  Surely  it  is  the 
most  democratic  country  in  Europe.     1  saw 


a  Colonel  the  other  day,  in  Bologna,  carry- 
ing a  newspaper  parcel.  He  was  in  full 
uniform.  It  was  the  secret  of  Saint  Francis 
that  he  knew  how  to  bridge  the  gulf  on 
either  side  of  which  we,  prisoners  in  feu- 
dal holds,  have  cried  to  each  other  in  vain. 
It  was  the  secret  of  the  Delia  Robbia  too. 
The  god  shall  sink  that  we  may  rise  to 
meet  him  in  the  way.  Why  not.^  Here 
204 


WITH  THE  BROWN  BEAR 

in  Pistoja  are  some  precious  pieces — a  Vis- 
itation in  San  Giovanni,  a  pearly  Madonna 
Incoronata  on  tlie  big  door  of  San  Giacopo, 
concerning  which  it  would  be  difficult  to 
account  to  one's  self  for  the  added  zest 
given  by  the  mantle  of  fine  dust  which  has 
settled  down  on  the  pale  folds  of  the 
drapery  and  outlined  the  square  blue  panels 
of  the  background.  After  all,  is  it  not  one 
more  touch  of  the  hedgerow,  a  symbol  of 
the  hedgerow-faith  not  quite  dead  in  the 
byways  of  Italy  ? 

But  I  know  I  shall  never  convey  the  spon- 
taneity with  which  Fra  Paolino's  Visitation 
strikes  quick  for  the  heart.  The  thing  is  so 
momentary,  a  mere  quiver  of  emotion  pass- 
ing from  one  woman  to  another.  The  pair 
of  them  have  looked  in  to  the  deeps.  Then 
the  older  stumbles  forward  to  her  knees, 
and  the  girl  stoops  down  to  raise  her.  One 
guesses  the  rest.  They  will  be  sobbing  to- 
gether in  a  minute,  the  girl's  face  buried  in 
the  other's  shoulder.  All  you  are  to  see 
is  just  the  wistfulness, — "  My  dear  !  my 
dear  !  "  And  then  the  Virgin,  full  of  Grace, 
but  a  shy  girl  in  her  teens  for  all  that, 
hides  her  hot  cheeks  and  cries  her  little 
wild  heart  to  quietness.  Some  of  it  is  in 
205 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

Albertinelli's  fine  picture,  but  not  all.  All  of 
it — and  here 's  the  point — is  to  be  seen  in  the 
street  among  these  clear-eyed  Tuscan  wo- 
men, just  as  Fra  Paolino  (himself  of  ^istoja) 
saw  it  before  our  time,  and  then  fixed  it  for 
ever  in  blue  and  white. 

And  now  cross  the  Piazza  and  come  down 
the  steep  incline  by  the  Palazzo  Commune, 
turn  to  the  left,  and  behold  the  crown  of 
Pistoja,  the  Spedale  del  Ceppo.  Everybody 
knows  Luca's  masterpiece  at  Florence,  the 
Foundling  Hospital  on  whose  front  are  some 
twenty  bambini  in  pure  white  on  blue: 
babies  or  flowers,  one  does  not  know 
which.  In  15 14  the  Pistolesi  remodelled 
their  own  hospital,  and  called  in  the  suc- 
cessors to  Luca's  mystery  to  make  it  joyful. 
Andrea,  Giovanni,  Luca  II.,  and  Girolamo 
came  and  conjured  in  turn,  and  their  wall- 
flowers sprouted  from  the  limewashed  sides. 
I  fancy  myself  out  in  the  patched  Piazza  del 
Ceppo  as  I  write,  looking  again  on  the 
pleasant  quietness  of  it  all.  It  is  a  grey  day 
with  thunder  smouldering  somewhere  in 
the  hills,  close  and  heavy.  The  blind  walls 
about  me  stare  hard  in  the  raw  light,  but 
the  wards  of  the  hospital  are  open  back  and 
front  to  the  air;  it  is  a  rest  for  the  eye  to 
206 


The  Visitation 


Group  by  one  of  the  Delia  Robbia  in  the  Church  of  San 
Giovanni  Fuorcivitas,  Pistoia 


-    II 1 1  I  ^. 


patched  Pi. 


WITH  THE  BROWN  BEAR 

look  into  their  cool  depths  within  the  loggia. 
It  is  a  square,  very  plain,  yellow  building, 
this  hospital,  unrelieved  save  for  its  log- 
gia, its  painted  frieze  of  earthenware,  and 
a  rickety  cross  to  denote  its  pious  uses. 
Through  the  wards  1  can  see  to  the  wet 
sky  again  and  a  gable-end  of  vivid  red  and 
yellow.  A  thin  black  Christ  on  his  cross 
stands  up  against  this  bright  square  of  dis- 
tance, pathetic  silhouette  enough  for  me; 
reminder  something  sinister,  you  might 
think,  for  the  sick  folk  inside.  But  not  so; 
this  is  a  crucifix,  not  a  Crucifixion.  This  poor 
wooden  Rood,  bowing  in  the  shade,  speaks 
not  of  high  tragedy,  but  of  the  simple  annals 
of  the  poor  again ;  not  of  St.  John,  but  of  St. 
Luke.  I  shall  be  called  sentimental;  but 
with  the  band  of  garden  colours  before  me  I 
can't  get  away  from  the  streets  and  alleys.  I 
am  not  sure  the  craftsmen  intended  I  should. 
The  hospital  itself  is  low  and  square  ;  it 
is  limewashed  all  over,  and  has  the  blind 
and  beaten  aspect  of  all  Italian  houses  : — 
red-purplish  tiles  running  into  deep  eaves, 
jalousied  windows,  and  the  loggia.  It  is 
on  the  face  of  this  that  the  workers  in 
baked  clay — ''lavoro  molto  utile  per  la 
state,"  so  cool  and  fresh  is  it,  so  redolent 
207 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

of  green  pastures  and  the  winds  of  April — 
have  moulded  the  Seven  Acts  of  Pure 
Mercy  in  colours  as  pure  ;  blue  of  morning 
sky,  grass-green,  daffodil-yellow.  Once 
more,  no  heroics  :  here  is  what  the  work- 
men knew  and  we  see.  Black  and  white 
frati,  not  idealised  at  all,  but  sleek  and 
round  in  the  jaw  as  a  monk  will  get  on  oil 
and  asciutta,  minister  to  sun-burnt  peas- 
ants, and  ruddy  girls  as  massive  in  the 
waist  and  stout  in  the  ankle  as  their  sisters 
of  to-day.  Then,  of  course,  there  is  Alle- 
gory,— Allegory  of  your  well-ordered,  grav- 
itated sort,  which  takes  us  no  whit  farther 
from  wholesome  earth  and  the  men  and 
women  so  plainly  and  happily  made  of  it. 
No  soaring,  no  transcendentalism.  Carita 
is  a  deep-breasted  market-girl  nursing  two 
brown  babies,  whom  I  have  just  seen 
sprawling  over  a  gourd  in  the  Campo 
Marzio  ;  Fortezza,  Speranza,  Fede,  I  know 
them  all,  bless  their  sober,  good  eyes  !  in 
the  fruit-market,  or  selling  newspapers,  or 
plaiting  straws  in  the  Piazza.  After  this 
we  slide  into  religion  pure  and  direct,  the 
beautiful  ridiculous  Paganism  which  has 
never  left  the  plain  heathen-folk.  Wreathed 
medallions  in  the  spandrils  give  us  Mary 
208 


WITH  THE  BROWN  BEAR 

warned,  Mary  visited,  Mary  homing  to  her 
Son,  Mary  crowned  ;  what  would  they  do 
without  their  Bona  Dea  in  Tuscany  ?  She 
is  of  them,  and  yet  always  a  little  beyond 
their  grasp.  Not  too  far,  however.  That 
means  Gothicism.  The  advantage  of  the 
Italian  religious  ideal  is  obvious.  Art  may 
never  leave  for  long  together  the  good  brown 
earth ;  and  it  can  serve  religion  well  when  it 
plucks  up  a  type  to  set,  clean  as  God  made  it, 
just  a  little  above  our  reach,  to  show  whose 
is  "  the  earth  and  the  fulness  thereof." 

An  example.  I  leave  the  white  and 
crumbling  Piazza,  its  old  marble  well,  its 
beggars,  its  sick,  and  its  meadow-fresh  bor- 
der of  Delia  Robbia  planting,  and  stray  up 
the  Via  del  Ceppo  towards  the  ramparts. 
High  at  a  barred  window  a  brown  mother 
with  a  brown  dependent  baby  smiles  down 
upon  my  wayfaring.  She  has  fine  broad 
brows  and  a  patient  face  ;  when  she  smiles, 
out  of  mere  kindness  for  my  solitary  goings, 
it  is  pleasant  to  note  the  gleam  of  light  on 
her  teeth  and  lips.  I  take  off  my  hat,  as 
Luca  or  Lippo  would  have  done,  to  "ma 
cousine  la  Reine  des  cieux." 

Thus  goes  life  in  Pistoja  and  the  rest  of 

the  world. 

14 

209 


xni 

DEAD   CHURCHES    AT   FOLIGNO 

FROM  my  roof-top,  whither  I  am  fled  to 
snatch  what  cooler  airs  may  drift  into 
this  cup  of  earth,  I  can  see  above  the  strag- 
gling tiles  of  gable  and  loggia  the  cupolas 
and  belfries  of  many  churches.  I  know 
they  are  all  dead;  for  I  have  wound  a  de- 
vious way  through  the  close,  inhospitable 
streets  and  met  them  or  their  ghosts  at 
every  corner.  The  ghost  of  a  dead  church 
is  the  worst  of  all  disembodied  sighs:  he 
wails  and  chatters  at  you.  Here  I  have 
seen  churches  whose  towers  were  fallen 
and  their  tribunes  laid  bare  to  the  insults 
of  the  work-a-day  world.  There  were 
churches  with  ugly  gashes  in  them,  fresh 
and  smarting  still ;  some  had  sightless  eyes, 
as  of  skulls  ;  and  there  were  churches 
piecemeal  and  scattered  like  the  splinters 
of  the  True  Cross.  A  great  foliated  arch 
of  travertine  would  frame  a  patch  of 
plaster  and  soiled  casement  just  broad 
enough  for  some  lolling  pair  of  shoulders 


DEAD  CHURCHES 

and  shock-head  atop;  a  sacred  emblem, 
some  Agnus  indefinably  venerable,  some 
proud  old  cognisance  of  the  See,  or  frayed 
Byzantine  symbol  (plaited  with  infinite  art 
by  its  former  contrivers),  such  and  other 
consecrated  fragments  would  stuff  a  hole  to 
keep  the  wind  away  from  a  donkey-stall 
or  Fabbrica  di  pasta  in  a  muddy  lane.  I 
met  dismantled  walls  still  blushing  with 
the  stains  of  fresco — a  saint's  robe,  the 
limp  burden  of  the  Addolorata  ;  —  I  met 
texts  innumerable,  shrines  fly-ridden  and, 
often  as  not,  mocked  with  dead  flowers. 
And  now,  as  1  see  these  grey  towers  and 
the  grand  purple  line  of  the  hills  hem- 
ming in  the  Tiber  Valley,  I  know  1  am 
come  down  to  the  sated  South,  to  the 
confines  of  Umbria,  the  country  of  dead 
churches,  and  of  Rome  the  metropolis  of 
such  deplorable  broken  toys.  This  appears 
to  me  the  disagreeable  truth  concerning 
the  harbourage  of  Saint  Francis  and  Saint 
Bernardine,  and  of  Roberto  da  Lecce,  a 
man  who,  if  everybody  had  his  rights, 
would  be  known  as  great  in  his  way  as 
either.  You  will  remember  that  Luther 
found  it  out  before  me.  The  religious 
enthusiasm    we   bring   in   may   serve    our 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

turn  while  we  are  here:  it  will  be  odd  if 
any  survive  for  the  return  ;  impossible  to 
go  away  as  fervid  as  we  come.  Other 
enthusiasms  will  fatten  ;  but  the  wonder- 
ful Gothic  adumbration  of  Christianity  was 
born  in  the  North  and  has  never  been 
healthy  anywhere  else.  Gothicism,  driven 
southward  runs  speedily  to  seed  ;  an 
amazing  luxuriance,  a  riot,  strange  flowers 
of  heavy  shapes  and  maddening  savour  ; 
and  then  that  worst  corruption  to  follow  a 
perfection  premature.  So  mediaeval  Christ- 
ianity in  Umbria  is  a  ruin,  but  not  for 
Salvator  Rosa  ;  it  has  not  been  suffered  a 
dignified  death.  That  is  the  sharpest  cut 
of  all,  that  the  poor  bleached  skull  must  be 
decked  with  paper  roses. 

All  this  is  forced  upon  me  by  my  last 
days  in  Tuscany,  where  a  lower  mean  has 
secured  a  serener  reign.  I  had  hardly  real- 
ised the  comeliness  of  its  intellectual  vigour 
without  this  abrupt  contrast.  Pistoja,  with 
its  pleasant  worship  of  the  wholesome  in 
common  life;  Lucca,  girdled  with  the  grey 
and  green  of  her  immemorial  planes,  and 
adorned  with  the  silvery  gloss  of  old  mar- 
ble and  stone-cutter's  work  exquisitely  curi- 
ous; then  Prato,  dusty  little  handful  of  old 

212 


DEAD  CHURCHES 

brick  palaces  and  black  and  white  towers, 
where  I  heard  a  mass  before  the  high  altar 
but  two  Sundays  ago.  All  Prato  was  in 
church  that  showery  morning,  I  think.  The 
air  was  close,  even  in  the  depths  of  the 
great  nave:  the  fans  all  about  me  kept  up  a 
continual  flicker,  like  bats'  wings,  and  the 
men  had  to  use  their  hats,  or  handkerchiefs 
where  they  had  them.  To  hear  the  re- 
sponses rolling  about  the  chapels  and  echo- 
ing round  the  timbers  of  the  roof  you  would 
have  said  the  thunder  had  come.  It  was 
too  dark  to  see  Lippi's  light-hearted  secul- 
arities  in  the  choir;  one  saw  them,  how- 
ever, best  in  the  congregation — the  same 
appealing  innocence  in  the  grey-eyed  wo- 
men, and  the  men  with  the  same  grave  self- 
possession  and  the  same  respectful  but 
deliberate  concern  with  their  own  affairs 
which  gives  you  the  idea  that  they  are  lend- 
ing themselves  to  divine  service  rather  out 
of  politeness  than  from  any  more  intimate 
motive.  Lippi  saw  this  in  Prato  four  cent- 
uries ago,  and  I,  after  him,  saw  it  all  again 
in  a  rustic  sacrifice  which  1  should  find  it 
hard  to  distinguish  from  earlier  sacrifices  in 
the  same  spot.  And  indeed  it  is  informed 
with  precisely  the  same  spirit,  an  inarticulate 

213 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

reverence  for  the  Dynamic  in  Nature.  How 
many  religions  can  be  reduced  to  that!  In 
Florence  again,  what  a  hardy  slip  of  the  old 
stock  still  survives!  You  may  see  how  the 
worship  of  Venus  Genetrix  and  Maria  Dei- 
para  merged  in  the  work  of  Botticelli  and 
Ghirlandajo,  Michael  Angelo  and  Andrea 
del  Sarto;  you  may  see  how,  if  asceticism 
has  never  thriven  there,  there  was  (and  still 
is)  an  effort  after  selection  of  some  sort  and 
a  scrupulous  respect  for  the  elegantia  quce- 
dani  which  Alberti  held  to  be  almost  divine; 
you  may  see,  at  least,  a  religion  which  still 
binds,  and  which,  making  no  great  profes- 
sions, has  grown  orderly  and  surely  to  re- 
spect. Thus  from  a  Tuscany,  pagan,  kindly, 
exuberant  and  desponding  by  turns,  but 
always  ready  with  that  long  slow  smile  you 
first  meet  in  the  Lorenzetti  of  Siena  and 
afterwards  find  so  tenderly  expressed  in  its 
different  manifestations  in  the  Delia  Robbia 
and  Botticelli, — a  smile  where  patience  and 
wistfulness  struggle  together  and  finally 
kiss, — I  came  down  to  Umbria  and  a  people 
dying  of  what  M.  Huysmans  grandiosely 
calls  "our  immense  fatigue."  Here  is  a 
people  that  has  loved  asceticism  not  wisely. 
This  asceticism,  pushed  to  the  limit  where  it 
214 


DEAD  CHURCHES 

becomes  a  kind  of  sensuality,  has  bitten 
into  Umbria's  heart;  and  Umbria,  with  a 
cloyed  palate,  sees  her  frescos  peel  and  lets 
her  sanctuaries  out  to  bats  and  green  lizards. 
Surely  the  worst  form  of  moral  jaundice  is 
where  the  sufferer  watches  his  affections 
palsy,  but  makes  no  stir. 

From  the  ramp  of  the  citadel  at  Perugia 
you  can  guess  what  a  hornet's  nest  that 
grey  stronghold  of  the  Baglioni  must  have 
been.  It  commands  the  great  plain  and 
bars  the  way  to  Rome.  Westward,  on  a 
spur  of  rock,  stands  Magione  and  a  lonely 
tower  :  this  was  their  outpost  towards 
Siena.  Eastward  there  is  a  white  patch  on 
the  distant  hills — Spello,  '*  mountain  built 
with  quiet  citadel,"  quiet  enough  now. 
There  was  always  a  Baglione  at  Spello 
with  his  eyes  set  on  chance  comers  from 
Foligno  and  Rome.  Seen  from  thence, 
Augusta  Perusia  hangs  like  a  storm  cloud 
over  her  cliffs,  impregnable  but  by  strategy, 
as  wicked  and  beautiful  as  ever  her  former 
masters,  the  Seven  Deadly  Sins,  grandsons 
of  Fortebraccio.  The  place  is  like  its  his- 
tory, of  course,  having,  in  fact,  grown  up 
with  it  :  you  might  say  it  was  the  incarn- 
ation of  Perugia's  spirit  ;  it  would  only  be 

215 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

to  admit,  what  is  so  obvious  over  here, 
that  a  town  is  the  work  of  art  of  that 
larger  soul,  the  body  politic.  So  to  see 
the  crazy  streets  cut  in  steps  and  crevasses 
across  and  through  the  rocks,  spanning  a 
gorge  with  a  stone  ladder  or  boring  a 
twisted  tunnel  under  the  sheer  of  the 
Etruscan  walls,  to  note  the  churches 
innumerable  and  the  foundations  of  the 
thirty  fortress-towers  she  once  had — all  this 
is  to  read  the  secret  of  Perugia's  two  love 
affairs.  Of  her  towers  Julius  II.  left  but 
two  standing,  blind  pillars  of  masonry  ; 
but  there  were  thirty  of  them  once,  and 
the  Baglioni  held  them  all,  for  a  season. 
Now  it  was  these  wild  Baglioni — ''filling 
the  town  with  all  manner  of  evil  living," 
says  Matarazzo,  but  nevertheless  intensely 
beloved  for  their  bold  bearing  and  beauty, 
as  of  young  hawks  ; — it  was  just  these 
blood-stained  striplings,  this  Semonetto 
who  rode  shouting  into  the  Piazza  after  an 
affray  and  swept  his  clogged  hair  clear  of 
his  eyes  that  he  might  see  to  kill,  this 
black  Astorre,  "of  the  few  words,"  who 
was  murdered  in  his  shirt  on  his  marriage- 
eve  by  his  cousin  and  best  friend  ;  it  was 
this  very  cousin  Grifone,  so  beautiful  that 
216 


DEAD  CHURCHES 

**  he  seemed  an  angel  of  Paradise,"  who,  in 
his  turn,  was  cut  down  and  laid  out  with 
his  dead  allies  below  San  Lorenzo  that  his 
widow  might  not  fail  of  finding  him  and 
his  marred  fairness — it  was  just  this  stormy 
crew  that  fell  weeping  at  Suor  Brigida's 
meek  feet,  confessed  their  sins,  and  received 
tne  Communion  (encompassers  and  encom- 
passed together,  and  all  in  a  rapture)  on 
the  very  eve  of  the  great  slaughter  of  1500; 
it  was  they  who  adorned  the  Oratory  of 
San  Bernardino  and  made  it  the  miracle  of 
rose-colour  and  blue  that  it  is ;  who  reared 
the  enormous  San  Domenico  below  the 
Gate  of  Mars,  and  who,  in  this  hot-bed 
of  enormity,  nurtured  Perugino's  dreamy 
Madonnas.  What  it  meant  I  know  not  at 
all.  There  are  other  riddles  as  hard  in  Um- 
bria.  Renan  saw  the  gentle  cadence  of 
the  landscape — violet  hills,  the  silver  gauze 
of  water,  oliveyards  all  of  a  green  mist  ; 
read  the  Fioretti  and  the  dolorous  ecstasies 
of  Perugino's  Sebastian,  and  straightway 
adapted  the  high-flown  parallel  worked 
out  in  detail  by  Giotto.  Umbria  for  him 
was  the  Galilee  of  Italy,  and  Francis  son  of 
Bernard  an  avatar  of  Christ.  But  Renan 
was  apt  to  allow  his  emotions  to  ride  him. 

217 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

Another  dazzling  contrast,  which  has  re- 
cently exercised  another  dextrous  French- 
man, is  Siena  with  her  Saint  Catherine 
and  her  Sodoma  who  betrayed  her — Saint 
Catherine,  as  great  a  force  politically  as 
she  was  spiritually,  and  Sodoma,  who 
painted  her  like  a  Danae  with  love-glazed 
eyes  fainting  before  the  apparition  of  the 
Crucified  Seraph. 

There  is  nothing  like  this  in  the  history 
of  Tuscany,  whose  palaces  not  long  were 
fortresses  nor  her  monks  at  any  time  suc- 
cessful politicians.  Cosimo  had  pulled 
down  the  Florentine  towers  or  ever  the 
last  Oddi  had  loosed  hold  of  Ridolfo's 
throat.  I  know  that  Siena  is  just  within 
that  province  geographically  ;  in  tempera- 
ment, in  art  and  manner,  she  has  always 
shown  herself  intensely  Umbrian.  Take, 
then,  the  case  of  Savonarola.  The  Floren- 
tines received  him  gladly  enough  and  heard 
him  with  honest  admiration,  even  enthusi- 
asm. Still  there  is  reason  to  believe  they 
took  him,  in  the  main,  spectacularly,  as 
they  also  took  that  portentous  old  mono- 
maniac Gemisthos  Pletho,  who  made  re- 
ligions as  we  might  make  pills.  For, 
observe,  Savonarola  lost  his  head — ^and  his 
218 


DEAD  CHURCHES 

life,  good  soul  ! — where  the  Florentines  did 
not.  The  cobbler  went  beyond  his  last 
when  the  Frate  essayed  politics.  He  suf- 
fered accordingly.  But  in  Perugia,  in  Siena, 
in  Gubbio  and  Orvieto,  the  great  revival- 
ists Bernardine,  Catherine,  Fra  Roberto, 
held  absolute  rule  over  body  and  soul.  For 
the  moment  Baglione  and  Oddi  kissed  each 
other  ;  all  feuds  were  stayed  ;  a  man 
might  climb  the  back  alleys  of  a  night  with- 
out any  fear  of  a  knife  to  yerk  him  (the 
Ancient's  word)  under  the  ribs  or  noose 
round  his  neck  to  swing  him  up  to  the 
archway  withal.  So  Catherine  brought 
back  Boniface  (and  much  trouble)  from 
Avignon,  and  Da  Lecce  wrote  out  a  new 
constitution  for  some  rock-bound  hive  of  the 
hills,  whose  crowd  wailing  in  the  market- 
place knew  the  ecstasy  of  repentance,  and 
ran  riot  in  religious  orgies  very  much  after 
the  fashion  ofthe  Greater  Dionysia  or,  say,  the 
Salvation  Army.  And  how  Niccolo  Alunno 
would  have  painted  the  Salvation  Army  ! 

So  it  does  seem  that  the  two  great 
passions  of  Umbria  burnt  themselves  out 
together.  They  were,  indeed,  the  two 
ends  of  the  candle.  When  the  Baglioni 
fell  in  the  black  work  of  two  August  nights, 
219 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY : 

only  one  escaped.  And  with  them  died 
the  love  of  the  old  lawless  life  and  the  in- 
finite relish  there  was  for  some  positive 
foretaste  of  the  life  of  the  world  to  come. 
Both  lives  had  been  lived  too  fast :  from 
that  day  Perugia  fell  into  a  torpor,  as  Peru- 
gino,  the  glass  of  his  time  and  place,  also 
fell.  Perugino,  we  know,  had  his  doubts 
concerning  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  but 
painted  on  his  beautiful  cloister-dreams, 
and  knocked  down  his  saints  to  the  highest 
bidder.*  Vasari  assures  me  that  the  chief 
solace  of  the  old  prodigal  in  his  end  of  days 
was  to  dress  his  young  wife's  hair  in  fan- 
tastic coils  and  braids.  A  prodigal  he  was 
— true  Peruginese  in  that — prodigal  of  the 
delicate  meats  his  soul  afforded.  His  end 
may  have  been  unedifying;  it  must  at  least 
have  been  very  pitiful.  Nowadays  his 
name  stands  upon  the  Corso  Vannucci  of 
the  town  he  uttered,  and  in  the  court  wall 
of  a  little  recessed  and  colonnaded  house  in 
the  Via  Deliziosa.  Meantime  his  frescos 
drop  mildewed  from  chapel  walls  or  are 
borne  away  to  a  pauper  funeral  in  the 
Palazzo  Communale. 

*  See,  however,  what  he  has  to   say  for  himself  in 
Chapter  V,  ante. 

220 


DEAD  CHURCHES 

In  his  finely  studied  Sensations  M.  Paul 
Bourget,  it  seems  to  me,  flogs  the  air  and 
fails  to  climb  it  when  he  struggles  to  lay 
open  the  causes  of  poor  Vannucci's  embit- 
tering. If  ever  painting  took  up  the  office 
of  literature  it  was  in  the  fifteenth  century. 
The  quattrocentisii  stand  to  Italy  for  our 
Elizabethan  dramatists.  This  may  have 
produced  bad  painting:  Mr.  George  Moore 
will  tell  you  that  it  did.  I  am  not  sure  that 
it  very  greatly  matters,  for,  failing  a  litera- 
ture which  was  really  dramatic,  really  poet- 
ical, really  in  any  sense  representative,  it 
was  as  well  that  there  led  an  outlet  some- 
where. At  any  rate  Lippi  and  Botticelli,  to 
those  who  know  them,  are  expressive  of 
the  Florentine  temper  when  Pulci  and  Pol- 
itian  are  distorted  echoes  of  another;  Peru- 
gino  leads  us  into  the  recesses  of  Perugia 
while  Graziani  keeps  up  fumbling  at  the 
lock.  And  Perugino's  languorous  boys  and 
maids  are  the  figments  of  a  riotous  erotic, 
of  a  sensuous  fancy  without  imagination  or 
intelligence  or  humour.  His  Alcibiades,  or 
Michael  Archangel,  seems  greensick  with  a 
love  mainly  physical ;  his  Socrates  has  the 
combed  resignation  of  his  Jeromes  and 
Romualds — smoothly  ordered  old  men  set 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

in  the  milky  light  of  Umbrian  mornings  and 
dreaming  out  placid  lives  by  the  side  of  a 
moonfaced  Umbrian  beauty,  who  is  now 
Mary  and  now  Luna  as  chance  motions  his 
hand.  How  penetrating,  how  distinctive 
by  the  side  of  them  seems  Sandro's  slim 
and  tearful  Anima  Mundi  shivering  in  the 
chill  dawn  !  With  what  a  strange  magic 
does  Filippino  usher  in  the  pale  apparition 
of  the  Mater  Dolorosa  to  his  Bernard,  or 
flush  her  up  again  to  a  heaven  of  blue-green 
and  a  glory  of  burning  cherubim  ?  This  he 
does,  you  remember,  with  rocket-like  effect 
in  a  chapel  of  the  Minerva  in  Rome.  But 
it  is  the  unquenchable  thirst  of  the  Umbrians 
for  some  spiritual  nutriment,  some  outlet 
for  their  passion  to  be  found  only  in  blood- 
shed or  fainting  below  the  Cross,  some 
fierce  and  untamable  animal  quality  such 
as  you  see  to-day  in  the  torn  gables,  the 
towers  and  bastions  of  Perugia,  it  is  the 
spirit  which  informed  and  made  these  things 
you  get  in  Perugino's  pictures — in  the  hot 
sensualism  of  their  colour-scheme,  the  ripe- 
ness and  bloom  of  physical  beauty  encasing 
the  vague  longing  of  a  too-rapid  ado- 
lescence. The  desire  could  never  be  fed  and 
the  bloom  wore  off.    Look  at  Duccio's  work 

222 


DEAD  CHURCHES 

on  the  facade  of  San  Bernardino.  Duccio 
was  a  Florentine,  but  where  in  Florence 
would  you  see  his  like  ?  What  a  revel  of 
disproportion  in 
these  long-leg- 
ged nymphs, 
full-lipped  and 
narrow-eyed  as 
any  of  Rossetti's  p 
curious  imagin-  ].^ 
ings.  Take  the  !  * 
Poverta,  aweedy  ' 
girl  with  the 
shrinking  paps 
of  a  child.  Here 
again  (exquisite 
as  she  is  in 
modelling  and 
intensity  of  ex- 
pression) you 
get  the  entice- 
ment of  a  mal- 
formation which 
is  absolutely  un- 
Greek — unless 
you  are  to  count  Phrygia  within  the  magic 
ring-fence — and  only  to  be  equalled  by  the 
luxury  of  Beccadelli.  You  get  that  in 
223 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

Sodoma  too,  the  handy  Lombard ;  you  have 
it  in  Perugino  and  all  the  Umbrians  (in  some 
form  or  other) ;  but  never,  I  think,>  in  the 
genuine  Tuscan — not  even  in  Botticelli — 
and  never,  of  course,  in  the  Venetians. 
Duccio  modelled  these  things  while  the 
Delia  Robbia  were  at  their  Hellenics;  and  a 
few  years  after  he  did  them,  came  the  end 
of  the  Baglioni  and  all  such  gear.  The  end 
of  real  Umbrian  art  was  not  long.  Perugino 
awoke  to  have  his  doubts  of  the  soul's  im- 
mortality. No  great  wonder  there,  per- 
haps, given  he  acknowledged  a  merciful 
heaven.     .     .     . 

1  chanced  to  meet  an  old  woman  the 
other  day  in  a  country  omnibus.  We  jour- 
neyed together  from  Prato  to  Florence  and 
became  very  friendly.  Your  dry  old  wo- 
man, who  hath  had  losses,  who  has  become, 
in  fact,  world-worn  and  very  wise,  or  like 
one  of  Shakespeare's  veterans — the  Grave- 
digger,  or  the  Countryman  in  Antony  and 
Cleopatra — has  probed  the  ball  and  found  it 
hollow;  such  a  battered  and  fortified  soul 
in  petticoats  is  peculiar  to  Italy,  and  coun- 
tries where  the  women  work  and  the  men, 
pocketing  their  hands,  keep  sleek  looks.  We 
had  just  passed  a  pleasant  little  procession. 
224 


DEAD  CHURCHES 

It  was  Sunday,  the  hour  Benediction.  A 
staid  nun  was  convoying  a  party  of  school- 
girls to  church ;  whereupon  I  remarked  to 
my  neighbour  on  their  pretty  bearing,  a 
sort  of  artless  piety  and  of  attention  for  un- 
known but  not  impossible  blessings  which 
they  had  about  them.  But  my  old  woman 
took  small  comfort  from  it.  She  knew 
those  cattle,  she  said:  Capuchins,  Jacobins, 
Black,  White  and  Grey, — knew  them  all. 
Well!  Everybody  had  his  way  of  making 
a  living:  hers  was  knitting  stockings.  A 
hard  life,  via,  but  an  honest.  Here  it  became 
me  to  urge  that  the  religious  life  might  have 
its  compensations,  without  which  it  would 
perhaps  be  harder  than  knitting  stockings; 
that  one  needed  relaxation  and  would  do 
well  to  be  sure  that  it  was  at  least  innocent. 
Relaxation  of  a  kind,  said  she,  a  man  must 
have.  Snuff  now!  She  was  inveterate  at 
the  sport.  The  view  was  very  dry;  but  1 
think  it  reasoned  limitations  also  very  Tus- 
can, and  by  no  means  exclusive  of  a  tolera- 
ble amount  of  piety  and  honest  dealing. 
Foligno,  by  mere  contrast,  reminds  me  of 
it — busy  Foligno  huddled  between  the 
mighty  knees  of  a  chalk  down,  city  of  fall- 
ing churches  and  handsome  girls,  just  now 

15 

225 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

parading  the  streets  with  their  fans  a-flutter 
and  a  pretty  turn  to  each  veiled  head  of 
them. 

As  I  write  the  light  dies  down,  the  wind 
drops,  huge  inky  clouds  hang  over  the 
west;  the  sun,  as  he  falls  behind  them,  sets 
them  kindling  at  the  edge.  The  worn  old 
bleached  domes,  the  bell-towers  and  turrets 
looming  in  the  blue  dusk,  seem  to  sigh  that 
the  century  moves  so  slowly  forward.  How 
many  more  must   they  endure  of  these  ? 

It  is  the  hour  of  <^ve  Maria.  But  only 
two  cracked  bells  ring  it  in. 


226 


ENVOY  :   TO   ALL   YOU   LADIES 

LOVELY  and  honourable  ladies,  it  is,  as 
I  hold,  no  mean  favour  you  have  ac- 
corded me,  to  sit  still  and  smiling  while  I 
have  sung  to  your  very  faces  a  stave  verg- 
ing here  and  there  on  the  familiar.  You 
have  sat  thus  enduring  me,  because,  being 
wrought  for  the  most  part  out  of  stone  or 
painter's  stuff,  your  necessities  have  indeed 
forbidden  retirement.  Yet  my  obligations 
should  not  on  that  account  be  lighter.  He 
would  be  a  thin  spirit  who  should  gain  a 
lady's  friendly  regard,  and  then  vilipend 
because  she  knew  no  better,  or  could  not 
choose.  I  hope  indeed  that  1  have  done 
you  no  wrong,  gentildonne.  I  protest  that 
1  have  meant  none  ;  but  have  loved  you  all 
as  a  man  may,  who  has,  at  most,  but  a 
bowing  acquaintance  with  your  ladyships. 
As  1  recall  your  starry  names,  no  blush 
hinting  unmannerliness  suspect  and  uncon- 
fessed  hits  me  on  the  cheek  : — Simonetta, 
Ilaria,  Nenciozza^  Bettina  ;  you  too,  candid 
Mariota  of  Prato  ;  you,  flinching  little 
227 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

Imola;  and  you,  snuflf-taking,  wool-carding 
ancient  lady  of  the  omnibus — scorner  of 
monks,  1  have  kissed  your  hands.  I  have 
at  least  given  our  whole  commerce  frankly 
to  the  world  ;  and  I  know  not  how  any 
shall  say  we  have  been  closer  acquainted 
than  we  should.  You,  tall  Ligurian  Simon- 
etta,  loved  of  Sandro,  mourned  by  Giuliano 
and,  for  a  season,  by  his  twisted  brother 
and  lord,  have  1  done  well  to  utter  but  one 
side  of  your  wild  humour  ?  The  side  a 
man  would  take,  struck,  as  your  Sandro 
was  by  a  nympholepsy,  or,  as  Lorenzo 
was,  by  the  rhymer's  appetite  for  where- 
withal to  sonnetteer  ?  If  I  understand  you, 
it  was  never  pique  or  a  young  girl's  petu- 
lance drove  you  to  Phryne's  one  justifiable 
act  of  self-assertion.  It  was  honesty, 
Madonna,  or  I  have  read  your  grey  eyes  in 
vain  ;  it  was  enthusiasm — that  flame  of  our 
fire  so  sacred  that  though  it  play  the  incen- 
diary there  shall  be  no  crime — or  where 
would  be  now  the  "  Vas  d'elezione  "  .^ — 
nor  though  it  reveal  a  bystander's  grin, 
any  shame  at  all.  I  shall  live  to  tell  that 
story  of  thine.  Lady  Simonetta,  to  thy 
honour  and  my  own  respect ;  for,  as  a  poet 
says, 

228 


ENVOY:  TO  ALL  YOU  LADIES 

' '  There  is  no  holier  flame 
Than  flutters  torchwise  in  a  stripling  heart, 

a  fire  from  Heaven 

To  ash  the  clay  of  us,  and  wing  the  God." 

I  have  seen  all  memorials  of  you  left 
behind  to  be  pondered  by  him  who  played 
Dante  to  your  Beatrice,  Sandro  the  painting 
poet, — the  proud  clearness  of  you  as  at  the 
marriage  feast  of  Nastagio  degli  Onesti ;  the 
melting  of  the  sorrow  that  wells  from  you 
in  a  tide,  where  you  hold  the  book  of  your 
over-mastering  honour  and  read  Magnificat 
Anima  Mea  with  a  sob  in  your  throat  ;  your 
acquaintance,  too,  with  that  grief  which 
was  your  own  hardening  ;  your  sojourn, 
wan  and  woebegone  as  would  become  the 
wife  of  Moses  (maker  of  jealous  gods)  ; 
all  these  guises  of  you,  as  well  as  the 
presentments  of  your  innocent  youth,  I 
have  seen  and  adored.  But  I  have  ever 
loved  you  most  where  you  stand  a  wistful 
Venus  Anadyomene — "Una  donzella  non 
con  uman  volto,"  as  Politian  confessed  ;  for 
I  know  your  heart,  Madonna,  and  see  on 
the  sharp  edge  of  your  threatened  life, 
Ardour  look  back  to  maiden  Reclusion,  and 
on  (with  a  pang  of  foreboding)  to  mockery 
and  evil  judgment.     Never  fear  but  I  brave 

22g 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

your  story  out  to  the  world  ere  many  days. 
And  if  any,  with  profane  leer  and  tongue  in 
the  cheek,  take  your  sorrow  for  reproach 
or  your  pitifulness  for  a  shame,  let  them 
receive  the  lash  of  the  whip  from  one  who 
will  trouble  to  wield  it  :  non  ragioniam  di 
lor.  For  your  honourable  women  I  give 
you  Ilaria,  the  slim  Lucchesan,  and  my  little 
Bettincina,  a  child  yet  with  none  of  the 
vaguer  surmises  of  adolescence  when  it 
flushes  and  dawns,  but  likely  enough,  if 
all  prosper,  to  be  no  shame  to  your  com- 
pany. As  yet  she  is  aptest  to  Donatello's 
fancy:  she  will  grow  to  be  of  a  statelier 
bevy.  1  see  her  in  Ghirlandajo's  garden, 
pacing,  still-eyed,  calm  and  cold,  with 
Ginevra  de'  Benci  and  Giovanna  of  the 
Albizzi,  those  quiet  streets  on  a  visit  to  the 
mother  of  John  Baptist. 

Mariota.  the  hardy  wife  of  the  metal- 
smith,  is  not  for  one  of  your  quality, 
though  the  wench  is  well  enough  now 
with  her  baby  on  her  arm  and  the  best  of 
her  seen  by  a  poet  and  made  enduring. 
He,  like  our  Bernardo,  had  motherhood  in 
such  esteem  that  he  held  it  would  ransom 
a  sin.  A  sin  }  1  am  no  casuist  to  discuss 
rewards  and  punishments  ;  but  if  Socrates 
230 


ENVOY:  TO  ALL  YOU  LADIES 

were  rightly  informed  and  sin  indeed 
ignorance,  I  have  no  whips  for  Mariota's 
square  shoulders.  Her  baby,  I  warrant, 
plucked  her  from  the  burning.  I  am  not 
so  sure  but  you  might  find  in  that  girl  a  re- 
sponsive spirit,  and — is  the  saying  too 
hard  ? — a  teacher.  Contentment  with  a 
few  things  was  never  one  of  your  virtues, 
madam. 

There  is  a  lady  whose  name  has  been 
whispered  through  my  pages,  a  lady  with 
whom  I  must  make  peace  if  I  can.  Had  I 
known  her,  as  Dante  did,  in  the  time  of 
her  nine-year  excellence  and  followed  her 
(with  an  interlude,  to  be  sure,  for  Gentucca) 
through  the  slippery  ways  of  two  lives 
with  much  eating  of  salt  bread,  I  might 
have  grown  into  her  favour.  But  I  never  did 
know  Monna  Beatrice  Portinari;  and  when 
I  met  her  afterwards  as  my  Lady  Theologia 
I  thought  her  something  imperious  and 
case-hardened.  Now  here  and  there  some 
words  of  mine  (for  she  has  a  high  stom- 
ach) may  have  given  offence.  I  have  hinted 
that  her  court  is  a  slender  one  in  Italy,  the 
service  paid  her  lip-service;  the  lowered 
eyes  and  bated  breath  reserved  for  her;  but 
for  Fede  her  sister,  tears  and  long  kisses 
231 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY: 

and  the  clinging.  Well!  the  Casa  Catto- 
lica  is  a  broad  foundation;  I  find  Francis  of 
Umbria  at  the  same  board  with  Sicilian 
Thomas.  If  I  cleave  to  the  one  must  I 
despise  the  other  .^  Lady  Fede  has  my 
heart  and  Lady  Dottrina  must  put  aside  the 
birch  if  she  would  share  that  little  kingdom. 
Religio  habet,  said  Pico;  theologia  aiitem 
invenit.  Let  her  find.  But  she  must  be 
speedy,  for  I  promise  her  the  mood  grows 
on  me  as  I  become  italianato ;  and  I  can- 
not predict  when  the  other  term  of  the 
proposition  may  be  accomplished.  For 
one  thing,  Lady  Theologia,  I  praise  you 
not.  Sympathy  seems  to  me  of  the  es- 
sence, the  healing  touch  an  excellent  thing 
in  woman.     But  you  told  Virgil, 

"  lo  son  fatta  da  Dio,  sua  merce,  tale, 
Che  la  vostra  miseria  non  mi  tange." 

Sympathy,  Madonna  ?  And  Virgil  hope- 
less! On  these  terms  I  had  rather  gloom 
with  the  good  poet  (whose  fault  in  your 
eyes  was  that  he  knew  in  what  he  had 
believed)  than  freeze  with  you  and  Aquinas 
on  your  peak  of  hyaline.  And  as  I  have 
found  you.  Donna  Beatrice,  so  in  the  main 
have  they  of  whom  I  pitch  my  pipe.  Here 
232 


ENVOY:  TO  ALL  YOU  LADIES 

and  there  a  man  of  them  got  exercise  for 
his  fingers  in  your  web;  here  and  there 
one,  as  Pico  the  young  Doctor  of  yellow 
hair  and  nine  hundred  heresies,  touched 
upon  the  back  of  your  ivory  dais  that  he 
might  jump  from  thence  to  the  poets  out 
beyond  you  in  the  Sun.  Your  great  Dante, 
too,  loved  you  through  all.  But,  Madonna, 
he  had  loved  you  before  when  you  were — 

Donna  pietosa  e  di  novella  etade, 

and,  as  became  his  lordly  soul,  might  never 
depart  from  the  faith  he  had  in  you.  For 
me,  I  protest  I  love  Religion  your  warm- 
bosomed  mate  too  well  to  turn  from  her; 
yet  I  would  not  on  that  account  grieve  her 
(who  treats  you  well  out  of  the  cup  of  her 
abounding  charity)  by  aspersing  you.  And 
if  I  may  not  kiss  your  foot  as  you  would 
desire,  I  may  bow  when  I  am  in  the  way 
with  you;  not  thanking  God  I  am  not  as 
you  are,  but,  withal,  wishing  you  that  de- 
gree of  interest  in  a  really  excellent  world 
with  which  He  has  blessed  me  and  my 
like,  the  humble  fry. 

Lastly,  to  the  Spirits  which  are  in  the 
shrines  of  the  cities  of  Tuscany,  I  lift  up 
my   hands   with  the  offering  of  my  thin 

233 


EARTHWORK  OUT  OF  TUSCANY : 

book.  To  Lucca  dove-like  and  demure,  to 
Prato,  the  brown  country-girl,  to  Pisa, 
winsome  maid-of-honour  to  the  lady  of 
the  land,  to  Pistoja,  the  ruddy-haired  and 
ample,  and  to  Siena,  the  lovely  wretch, 
black-eyed  and  keen  as  a  hawk;  even  to 
Perugia,  the  termagant,  with  a  scar  on  her 
throat;  but  chiefest  to  the  Lady  Firenze, 
the  pale  Queen  crowned  with  olive — to  all 
of  you,  adored  and  adorable  sisters,  I  offer 
homage  as  becomes  a  postulant,  the  re- 
pentance of  him  who  has  not  earned  his 
reward,  thanksgiving,  and  the  praise  I  have 
not  been  able  to  utter.  And  I  send  you, 
Book,  out  to  those  ladies  with  the  suppli- 
cation of  good  Master  Cino,  schoolman  and 
poet,  saying, 

E  se  tu  troverai  donne  gentile, 
Ivi  girai  ;  che  la  ti  vo  mandare  ; 
E  dono  a  lor  d'  audienza  chiedi. 

Poi  di  a  costor :  Gittatevi  a  lor  piedi, 
E  dite,  chi  vi  manda  e  per  che  fare, 
Udite  donne,  esti  valletti  umili. 


234 


Historic  Towns  of  New  England 

Edited  by  Lyman  P.  Powell.  With  introduction 
by  George  P.  Morris.  With  i6o  illustrations. 
8°,  $3.50. 

CONTENTS: 

Portland,  by  S.  T.  Pickard  ;  Rutland,  by  Edwin  D.  Mead  ; 
Salem,  by  George  D.  Latimer  ;  Boston,  by  T.  W.  Higginson 
and  E.  E.  Hale;  Cambridge,  by  S.  A.  Eliot;  Concord,  by  F, 
B.  Sanborn;  Plymouth,  by  Ellen  Watson;  Cape  Cod 
Towns,  by  Katharine  Lee  Bates;  Deerfield,  by  George 
Sheldon  ;  Newport,  by  Susan  Coolidge  ;  Providence,  by 
Wm.  B.  Weeden  •  Hartford,  by  Mary  K.  Talcott  ;  New 
Haven,  by  F.  H.  Cogswell. 

Historic  Towns  of  the  Middle  States 

Edited  by  Lyman  P.  Powell.  With  introduction  by 
Albert  Shaw.  With  160  illustrations.    8°,  $3.50. 

CONTENTS  : 

Albany,  by  W.  W.  Battershall  ;  Saratoga,  by  Ellen  H. 
Walworth  ;  Schenectady,  by  Judson  S.  Landon  ;  Newburgh, 
by  Adelaide  Skeel  ;  Tarrytown,  by  H.  W.  Mabie  ;  Brook- 
lyn, by  Harringion  Putnam;  New  York,  by  J.  B.  Gilder; 
Buffalo,  by  Roland  B.  Mahany;  Pittsburgh,  by  S.  H. 
Church;  Philadelphia,  by  Talcott  Williams  ;  Princeton, 
by  W.  M.  Sloane  ;  Wilmington,  by  E.  N.  Vallandigham. 

Some  Colonial  Homesteads 

And  Their  Stories.  By  Marion  Harland.  With 
86  illustrations.     8°,  $3.00. 

"  A  notable  book,  dealing  with  early  American  days.  .  .  . 
The  name  of  the  author  is  a  guarantee  not  only  of  the  greatest 
possible  accuracy  as  to  facts,  but  of  attractive  treatment  of  themes 
absorbingly  interesting  in  themselves,  .  .  .  the  book  is  of 
rare  elegance  in  paper,  typography,  and  binding." — Rochester 
Democrat-Chronicle. 

More  Colonial  Homesteads 

And  Their  Stories.  By  Marion  Harland.  Fully 
illustrated.     8°,  $3.00. 

Where  Ghosts  Walk 

The  Haunts  of  Familiar  Characters  in  History  and 
Literature.  By  Marion  Harland,  author  of 
"  Some  Colonial  Homesteads,"  etc.  W^ith  33 
illustrations.     8°,  $2.50. 

"  In  this  volume  fascinating  pictures  are  thrown  upon  the  screen 
so  rapidly  that  we  have  not  time  to  have  done  with  our  admira- 
tion for  one  before  the  next  one  is  encountered.  .  .  .  Long- 
forgotten  heroes  live  once  more  ;  we  recall  the  honored  dead  to 
life  again,  and  the  imagination  runs  riot.  Travel  of  this  kind 
does  not  weary.     It  fascinates."— iVipw  York  Times. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  New  York  and  London 


BELLES=LETTRES 


Little  Journeys 

to  the  Homes  of  Good  Men  and  Great 
to  the  Homes  of  American  Authors 
to  the  Homes  of  Famous  Women 
to  the  Homes  of  American  Statesmen 
to  the  Homes  of  Eminent  Painters 
Fully  illustrated.     i6°,  each,  $1.75  ;  per  set,  $8.75. 

The  Ayrshire  Homes  and 
Haunts  of  Burns 

By  Henry  C.  Shelley.  With  26  full-page  illustra- 
tions from  photographs  by  the  author,  and  with 
portrait  in  photogravure.    2d  edition.      16°,  $1.25. 

"  This  is  one  of  the  pleasantest  and  least  controversial  of  the 
recent  contributions  to  the  literature  of  Burns.  ...  A  very 
interesting,  useful,  and  attractive  book." — London  Spectator. 

Lyrics  and  Ballads  of  Heine 

Goethe,   and   Other    German    Poets.      Translated   by 

Frances  Hellman.     Second  edition,  revised  and 

enlarged.      16°,  $1.50. 

"An  exquisitely  made  little  book  is  the  second  edition  of 
the  Lyrics  and  Ballads  of  Heine.  The  translations  are  happy, 
smooth,  and  flowing,  and  with  no  little  vigor." — Neiv  York 
Evangelist. 

The  Complete  Works  of 
Washington  Irving 

New  Knickerbocker  Edition.  Forty  volumes, 
printed  on  vellum  deckel-edged  paper  from  new 
electrotype  plates,  with  photogravure  and  other 
illustrations.     16°,  gilt  tops,  each,  $1.25. 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS,  New  York  and  Londom 


■•^.■r-^^^:r^^f^^m^.'m^l 


